


For All That Has Happened

by TrinesRUs



Series: Transformers: To Destroy [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Class Issues, Doomed friendship, Eventual Romance, M/M, Pre-War to War, Rating May Change, Sparklings, characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrinesRUs/pseuds/TrinesRUs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mirage's affair with Hound leaves him sparked, his reputation might have been salvaged with a conjunx and a little white lie or two. When the resultant youngling, Moonracer, proves to have a rebellious streak that sees her forming a friendship with the warbuild Skywarp, things get more complicated. What neither Mirage nor Moonracer sees coming is the war that will completely obliterate their assumptions and life as they know it.</p><p>Each part of the <em>Transformers: To Destroy</em> series can be read independently, but <em>Tenets of the Dusk's Lucidity</em> is recommended reading for the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flutterings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Edit 1/22/16:** I've completely rewritten this first chapter for a bunch of reasons: clarity, improved skill over all, things I only decided after this project suddenly turned from one multichapter to a whole continuity of them, etc. At time of this edit, I also have plans to rewrite chapters 2-4 and to edit chapters 5-8. Each of them will have a note added when they've been updated. These edits don't change the plot, but they may affect the interpretation of certain events.
> 
> Also, since units of time sometimes mean something different in different 'verses, here's a quick guide:  
> klik: ~minute  
> joor: ~hour  
> solar-cycle: Cybertronian day, sometimes interchanged with "sol" depending on function ("It takes a solar-cycle to get there" vs "I had a great sol")  
> mega-cycle: three solar-cycles  
> deca-cycle: Cybertronian week  
> orbital-cycle: The time it takes Cybertron's closer moon to orbit the planet (kind of like a Cybertronian month)  
> meta-cycle: The time it takes Cybertron's further moon to orbit the planet (roughly an orbital cycle and three-fourths)  
> stellar-cycle: Cybertronian year  
> vorn: Cybertronian century

            Mirage knew that driving to Finesse’s manor carried a degree of risk to both his own spark and to the newspark blossoming off of it, but it was a calculated risk. The chances of overheating his engine from the strain of carrying and accidental spark termination were still minimal at this early stage. The chance of intentional spark termination were far greater, especially if someone were to investigate the cause of his sudden decision to be seen _walking_ when he had a positively enviable alt-mode.

            It would have been easy to calculate when the newspark was kindled based on when he first felt the flutterings. Of course, Mirage didn’t need to do the math. There were many times when he had let his gardener between his thighs, but only once when he had been foolish enough to open his spark chamber to him.

            No one could blame him for interfacing with Hound so long as the news never went public. Many nobles had their own such dalliances. Some chose, as Mirage had, to pull the more broad-chassised mechs with powerful engines into their berths, while others preferred their daintier handmaidens. It was common enough knowledge, though no one could prove it, that one of the Dukes made frequent trips to Kaon for a little time with a pleasure bot.

            What made Mirage’s own affair troubling was how far he had taken it, even if by mistake, and the consequences he was left with. The newspark was an abomination, an affront to the will of the Prime and the High Council. The best thing he could do for all of them was to terminate the newspark, banish Hound from his grounds, and bribe or threaten anyone who found out the truth along the way into silence.

            But a certain sentimentality kept him from doing what he really should have. Hound had been working for his family for over a vorn, and the mech was so kind and trusting. As for the newspark, try as he might, Mirage could do nothing but summon a strange fondness for it. It was a piece of him, his heir, a light in his life. He couldn’t explain why he felt so strongly when the ball of energy was not yet a fully-formed spark, let alone a mech with a frame.

            A part of it was also a certain sense of pride, knowing he was not only one of the few mechs to carry a spark but also an even rarer breed to come from a line of sparked mechs. If he could only hide the true identity of his sparkling’s Sire, he could carry on one of the House of Illusia’s greatest claims to fame. This could not possibly account for all of it, but he could not deny its influence.

            Once Mirage had determined he could not terminate the spark, he had to find someone who would spark-bond with him or become his conjunx before the true Sire of his sparkling was discovered. That was why he risked driving to see Finesse. She was his oldest and closest friend, and a mech of great discretion. If he could not confide in her, he could not confide in anyone.

            Perhaps more importantly, she was one of the few mechs he could attach himself to without raising suspicion. From the outside, they were already assumed betrothed in all but official account. Between the two of them, Finesse had no interest in taking a conjunx or bonding with anyone, but had more or less already agreed to tie herself to Mirage if he did not find a more suitable match before the social pressure to take a mate became too strong.

            A maid answered the door when Mirage knocked, and she wasted no time letting him in and announcing his presence. “Lord Mirage to see you, Lord Finesse.”

            “Let him into the reading room, Swipedown,” she called back.

            Mirage’s spark was still pulsing like mad when he stepped into the room, but he forced his composure. He had to calm down for the newspark’s sake, and it wouldn’t do to be seen losing himself in front of the servants. At the same time, he could not yet compel himself to relax. He stood stiffly before Finesse, even after she dismissed Swipedown.

            Finesse had a sharp processor, a piercing gaze, and the all-around ability to cut to the spark of a mech’s words and actions. However, she also the grace and discipline to approach every situation with utmost finesse. She would not attack when there was yet no reason to leap. “Do you wish to have a seat, Lord Mirage?”

            Truthfully, he was too wound up to want to sit, but he forced himself into the seat nearest hers regardless. Mirage was a master of stillness, but even he had to force his leg not to bounce with his nervousness. The move he was about to make had to be phrased more carefully than any other statement he had ever made in society. If he said too little, Finesse would misunderstand and rebuff him, potentially destroying their friendship in the process. If he said too much, this maneuver will have been for nothing, and he and his newspark would lose everything.

            “I have come to you with a most important intent,” he began slowly. “I find myself in a difficult position, of which the only alleviation I can foresee is hastening the arrangement we agreed upon some stellar-cycles ago.” Mirage took Finesse’s servo in his and held it to his chestplate. “I have fostered a passion unbecoming of my station, and I suspect the only course of action that could redeem me is to complete our courtship as immediately as possible. I feel that I shall have a sparkling very soon or never at all.”

            For a moment, there was nothing but that keen pair of optics staring at his faceplate as though ancient ruins had been painted upon it. Mirage could only imagine what was running through her processor. Finesse had no interest in romance, none in interface, and certainly none in raising a sparkling. When they had agreed to be each other’s back-up mate, it was with the understanding that they would share no further intimacy than they enjoyed as friends, and that they would commission an heir rather than sparking one. If she understood his message in full, she would know that nothing further was expected from her than what had already been laid out originally, but this situation still offered a deviation from plan.

            The social protocol involved only confused matters still. As an earl, Finesse had much to gain from undergoing Conjunx Ritus with a marquis of Mirage’s reputation. However, Mirage’s reputation stood to plummet should his transgression come to light. If there was one thing Finesse’s family—the great House of Comitas—was known for, it was their complete and perfect adherence to proper decorum.

            At last, she responded, “These are powerful words, my dearest companion, but by what means do you intend to prove them? At present, they are but words.”

            He had forgotten, temporarily, that the Conjunx Ritus could not be completed without a gift. Mirage maintained enough poise not to stumble over himself retrieving his offering from subspace, but he still felt as though his proposal could be going more smoothly. He held out a data chip and said, “I wish to prove myself by this present.”

            Finesse didn’t laugh, but the slight smile on her faceplate spoke of amusement well enough. She received the chip from him and turned it over in her servos.

            “That contains copies of the documentation for the transferal of ownership of the Turbofox Theater to you.”

            She immediately cupped the chip against her chestplate. Her expressions were usually tightly-controlled, but in that moment, her optics were blown wide and her jaw was ever-so-slightly slack.

            “Take me or leave me, the theater is yours to keep,” said Mirage. “You are and always will be my dearest friend, and I could imagine no one appreciating or managing that theater so well as you would.” In truth, he could not. If anyone of their time could be called a great patron of acting, it was Finesse.

            Finesse vacated her seat to kneel before Mirage. She cupped his pede-wheels and kissed his knee joints. “Mirage of House Illusia, my dearest friend and light of my spark, I am yours as long as you will have me, ‘til all are one.”

            There was a crash and a squeal just outside the room, followed by the beat of someone running. “I believe Swipedown will spread the news of our joining.”

            Sure enough, it wasn’t long before news of their union as conjuges swept Uraya, and neither Mirage nor Finesse had to say a word. Some mechs called in on them to hear their news directly from the source, but none of them would ask more directly than, “Has anything new developed since last we spoke?” and few of them were talented enough actors to feign surprise when told that they had undergone Conjunx Ritus. Of course, there were still official documents to file and a customary public recitation of oaths, but their union was established knowledge.

            For his newspark’s sake, Mirage was grateful. The look on Hound’s faceplate when Mirage told him about Finesse, though, made a something wrench in his spark. He couldn’t make sense of the reaction. Hound was a servant, nothing more, even if their affair had brought on greater consequence than intended. A voice in his processor wondered if it could be a sign of fate or the newspark knowing its Sire’s pain, but Mirage immediately shut down those thoughts. They were dangerous.

            After everything had been taken care of—the documents filed, the masses appeased, Finesse moved into Mirage’s abode—they wasted as little time as possible setting a medical exam for the newspark. As part of keeping his condition secret, Mirage had not been consuming the special mixes of energon and minerals intended to support carrying a spark. It was vital that he not put the exam off further, lest he lose the newspark or his own life after all the trouble he had gone through to preserve them.

            “That fluttering you felt was definitely a newspark,” said the medic. “It’s still in the early stages of development, but it’s far enough along that I’m picking up some abnormalities.” Perhaps noticing Mirage’s look of worry, they added, “Nothing that’s likely to be life-threatening or severe, mind you. We can set up appointments to monitor these readings, but I find it likely that they will either go away or…”

            “Or?”

            “An abnormality can mean any number of harmless but unusual developments. It could carry a risk of processor defect, or it could just mean yellow optics. Outlier abilities or an unusual crest shape.” The medic began packing up their equipment. “In any case, it would be wise to stay off your wheels while the newspark is developing and decrease any stressors—physical and psychological. I can come back in two deca-cycles to run another scan.”

            “Thank you, Aide,” said Finesse. “I shall ensure that my conjunx heeds your instructions.”

            Despite the medic’s advice, Mirage could not completely eliminate stress from his life. He was a marquis, with all the responsibility that entailed. He upheld his duties until the energy exchange of carrying became too exhausting to continue. Even without the pressure of governing, there was a part of him that worried he and his sparkling were not yet in the clear, and that at any moment, the road would be ripped from under their tires and they would go careening to a crash.

            More than that, the abnormality the medic mentioned still troubled him. If it was simply yellow optics, he could handle it. Mirage himself had been sparked with yellow optics and had, thankfully, dodged the neurological defects that sometimes accompanied them. His creators had ensured that he had an operation to place blue filters in the lenses to avert the stigma of yellow optics when he was old enough, and he could do the same for his sparkling. If she was an outlier, he could teach her the discipline and care to avoid detection. If, however, it was a severe defect, every effort he had made to keep her safe would be for nothing.

            The newspark began separating an orbital-cycle before it was expected. Mirage knew, by a sharp pulse through his own spark, that something big was happening. Finesse only knew that he was in pain, and she called for a medic to be summoned to the manor immediately. The pain left Mirage squirming, and when the midwife arrived, she bounded into action.

            “Get his spark chamber open, and then give me room,” she said. “We need the newspark out before it takes them both down to the Well.” The midwife had an assistant hold Mirage in position while she carefully guided the newspark away from his and into a small, flexible protoform. Mirage struggled in their hold, writhing and rocking with the stabbing sensation in his spark.

            When the process was complete, Mirage was lain back on his berth, and when he had enough strength, he was allowed to hold his sparkling. Finesse stood by his side, and they watched the protoform take shape. It would be stellar-cycles before her alt-mode would be completely certain, but they could begin to get an idea of her future size and shape within a few joors. Sooner than that, her colors began to appear, her protoform shifting from the default grey to silver and pale, metallic green.

            “What shall we call her, dear spark?” asked Finesse.

            Mirage thought over the naming schemes customary to his lineage, auspicious names for mechs created in the Inrituneon orbital-cycle, and the features that were beginning to take shape on his sparkling’s frame. As he gently traced the crescent crest on her helm, he said, “Moonracer is a fine name, don’t you think?”


	2. Remarkable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Edit 1/23/16:** This chapter has been rewritten. Most of the events are essentially the same as the original version, but the difference is substantial.

            For the first three deca-cycles after the newspark’s emergence, Mirage found it impossible not to hover over the nurse’s pauldron as she tended to Moonracer. The sparkling was very weak, and her core temperature was alarmingly high. Mirage could not rest knowing that he had overcome a difficult carrying only for his sparkling to struggle so, and he _refused_ to rest until Moonracer was returned to his arms. The nurse provided much of the sparkling’s medical needs, changing her coolant every few joors and administering medicine, but Mirage insisted on pouring her energon and rocking her to recharge.

            Moonracer’s early separation left her more susceptible to illness. It made her a worryingly quiet newspark. She had to be constantly attended to in order to ensure she did not slide silently off to rejoin Primus before her time. While that should have made her a distraction to Mirage’s duties, he found himself more distracted on those sols when he worried that she might deactivate while she was out of his sight. He learned knew ways to hold himself during public appeals and to balance a sparkling with deskwork, projecting strength and authority while still being a good Carrier.

            In some respects, having Moonracer with him helped Mirage’s image. It was just as important for a leader to appear compassionate as it was to be wise, steadfast, and strong. Being seen caring for his sparkling showed his subordinates that he had a warm spark under his firm expression and tightly-held E.M.-field. As rare as sparklings were, having her there also served as both a reminder of rank and of Mirage’s lineage, the longest known line of sparked mechs. With the risk of her early deactivation, however, his selfish wish to be with his sparkling would also mean that the news of her death would be known publicly at once, and Mirage would not have a moment to mourn in private.

            A few stellar-cycles after her emergence, the fear that Moonracer would lose her spark to illness seemed ridiculous in hindsight. Not long after she could walk, she could run, and she ran at any opportunity she could find. She was a boundless ball of energy, and Mirage almost dreaded the sol she would get her wheels equipped.

            And just as holding her—in her sparklinghood—should have been a distraction but was not, having Moonracer healthy and more independent should have been liberating but was a distraction. All a servant had to do was step into a room while Mirage was holding council, and he knew at once that Moonracer had disappeared again. Depending on the urgency on the servants’ faceplates and the sensitivity of the matter being discussed, Mirage would either wait until the official business was taken care of to look after his youngling or draw the meeting to a natural break to be resumed after his little bundle of trouble was returned to her proper place.

            On one such occasion, Mirage was found before he could find Moonracer. He was stopped cold at the sight of Hound leading her in by the servo. It should not have taken him so strongly by surprise as it had, but there was an undeniable squeeze in his spark, seeing his youngling and her true Sire side by side.

            “I thought it was about time for her to return inside, sir,” said Hound. “It’s usually about this time that someone comes to retrieve her.”

            “Usually?” That tripped Mirage up even more. “Do you mean to suggest she makes a habit of interrupting your work?”

            “Not at all, sir. She sits nearby and plays while I tend the crystals. I keep her out of anything toxic, but other than that, she isn’t a bother at all. Sometimes, she asks about what I’m growing, but I can talk and work at the same time.”

            “I see.” There was a charged moment when Mirage’s optics accidentally met Hound’s and held. After a klik, Mirage cleared his vents, took Moonracer by the servo, and led her away.

            “Mirage,” Hound suddenly called out. Mirage stiffened, halted in his tracks. “Lord Mirage,” corrected Hound, “sir. If it would be any easier, I could watch over Moonracer for a joor or two every sol. She already spends time out there; it would just be making it an official part of her schedule, so you would know where she is.”

            There was logic in the argument. Mirage knew Moonracer would likely sneak out again even if he didn’t approve. However, he also knew he couldn’t encourage it. Her connection to Hound was precisely what he was trying to downplay, and she had to start learning the proper hierarchy somehow. “No, I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Mirage told him without turning around. Moonracer looked back, and he tugged on her servo. “Moonracer has lessons, and the time she loses bathing after visiting the gardens is too great.”

            Moonracer’s coloration had deepened from the metallic tones of her sparklinghood to white and mint green, and it made the mineral dust from her time outside too apparent. On occasions like that one, Mirage usually passed her off to a maid to be scrubbed down.

            On that particular occasion, after Hound was out of their sight but before Mirage could find a maid, Moonracer looked up at him in a way that sent shivers down his plating. There were times when her optics were so intense that he nearly forgot she wasn’t actually related to Finesse, and there were times they were so honest and curious he had no choice but to remember her relation to Hound. And then there were the times she managed both at once, and it terrified him.

            “Why can’t I play with Hound?” she asked, though her stage of speech development slurred her words in a way best rendered, “Whacan pay wis Hown?”

            “He’s busy, sweet spark. He has a job to do.”

            Moonracer scrunched her faceplate in a way that told him she didn’t believe him and that, had she better mastery of language, she would have given him quite the telling off.

            Even if he had officially condemned his sparkling’s unaccompanied visits to the gardens, he knew his word would not be enough to keep her away. Between business and routine, in moments when his processor was free enough to turn to the issue of Moonracer’s restlessness, he began to form an idea. She was too young, yet, to learn to use a rifle and accompany him on turbofox hunting trips, but one stellar-cycle, she could.

            Mirage arranged for her to play games of servo-optic coordination, balance, and strategy. On solar-cycles when his schedule was freer or when his engagements ended early, he sat in on her play. Sometimes, he joined in. When a game being too easy or too boring for her, Mirage arranged for a harder variation or entirely new game to be provided. These games seemed to divert her well enough, though Mirage still spotted Scour cleaning up tiny trails of mineral dust now and then.

            When Moonracer was old enough, Mirage set up targets, handed her a real blaster, and taught her to aim and shoot. He was startled by how quickly she took to the skill, but he assumed it could be chalked up to stellar-cycles of training applied to a new skill. He never once gave thought to the sheer focus in her optics when she aimed.

            Their first turbofox hunting trip was taken a meta-cycle after that. Three mechs of rank and title accompanied them: Dash Over, Cool Down, and Grandeur. Had there been a polite way to avoid inviting Grandeur, Mirage would have. However, Grandeur was a marchioness of reasonable enough reputation and great enough connection to make extending courtesy more advisable than snubbing her without just cause.

            Turbofox hunting was where Mirage felt most in his element. He had poise and grace no matter where he was, but turbofox hunting was where using it made himself feel powerful and energized. It was a game, seeing how close he could get to the speedy and evasive turbofox just through sheer stealth. He was completely undetectable when he activated his electro-disrupter, but using it would eliminate the point of his strategy. No, patience and awareness of his surroundings were key.

            It was not a value he had been successful at instilling in his youngling at that point. Mirage heard her drumming her fingers against the barrel of her rifle, and he signaled her to stop. Moonracer’s expression turned adorably serious, and she nodded. Mirage could feel the anxious energy in her E.M.-field, but she made no further movement, and the only sound for several kliks was the gentle rustling of the Langton’s loopbrush.

            He saw her finger slip to the trigger before he saw the flash of silver. It was just a moment, barely a split fragment of a klik, but so much went through his processor in the space between her finger hitting its position and seeing that glint. As a creator, he was prepared to comfort his youngling after failure, let her know that there would always be another chance to try again. As a seasoned turbofox hunter, he panicked that she would scare away the creatures before anyone else had their shot at them.

            It never occurred to him that her first shot would land. There was a distance, and it was impressive enough to spot the thing. It was too much to ask that she succeed on her first try. But sure enough, Moonracer pulled the trigger, and she nicked the turbofox in the leg. It limped along, and her next shot struck it down before it could escape out of sight.

            Mirage felt rather than saw Dash Over approach them. Dash Over was a two-wheeler, lighter and faster than even the rest of their company. His preferred methods of turbofox hunting were speeding alongside his targets and picking them off or herding them towards the group. If he wasn’t chasing turbofoxes, it meant that he wanted to talk—and could the mech ever talk.

            “Remarkable! Simply remarkable,” said Dash Over. “You said this was her first time hunting, Mirage? It doesn’t show at all. Quite the shot. How did you see that?”

            “I just saw it,” Moonracer replied.

            “Remarkable,” he repeated. Dash Over patted her on the helm and dashed off again. Moonracer shook her helm like she could rid herself of the phantom of his touch.

            After their trip, they all returned to Mirage’s and Finesse’s shared manor. Moonracer separated from the group to bathe and take a nap, for once without prompting. The rest of them, meanwhile, joined Finesse in the parlor for fresh fuel and treats.

            “I’ve said it earlier, and I will say it again,” said Dash Over, “that youngling of yours is positively delightful: talented and adorable. I expect she will grow up to be an exceptional mech one sol—not that it would be a shock in this company.” He raised his energon cube as if to toast them all.

            “Speaking of company,” said Cool Down, “I think we should introduce Aubade and Moonracer to one another. They would make quite the match, wouldn’t you say?”

            Had Dash Over been the one to propose the notion, Mirage would have balked. Cool Down was a commissioned marquis; Dash Over was a baron who bonded into a higher rank. Oh, there was no doubt about the love between them, and their relationship was only just short of a noble’s ideal, but there was a hard to ignore question of why flashy, baron Dash Over fell for a marquis and not another baron.

            As for Aubade himself, he was a protoformed mech, commissioned recently from Vector Sigma rather than sparked. Protoformed mechs reached final upgrades at a faster pace than sparklings did. He was likely to receive his final upgrades at the same time or just ahead of Moonracer, making their ages compatible. From what Mirage knew of the new mech, he had an even temper that could balance out Moonracer’s impulsiveness. It was a match worth testing.

            “Now is not the time to discuss it,” said Mirage, “but I agree that they should meet soon.”

            With a practiced ease, he clamped down on his vocalizer to avert any unintended noises of irritation when Grandeur tutted. She took a dramatic sip of her energon cube, which could only mean she was prepared for attack. Grandeur leaned one elbow on the table and said, “I also found myself fascinated with your Moonracer, Mirage. Under which orbital-cycle did she separate, again?”

            “Inrituneon.”

            “Shokaract, the Hunter!” Dash Over smacked a servo on the table. “A good sign for a mech of her skill. It must have been fate that you taught her to shoot.”

            “Shokaract, huh?” Grandeur sniffed, though the smile on her faceplate might have indicated a laugh. “Also a good sign for murderers, brutes, tyrants—”

            “Moonracer’s emergence was expected for Chokoneon, initially,” Mirage interrupted.

            “Chokoneon?”

            “The tail end of it, yes.” He held his cube as tightly as he could without shaking or crushing it.

            Grandeur raised her optic ridges and smiled a little wider. “And you and Finesse underwent Conjunx Ritus…?”

            “A full stellar-cycle before Moonracer’s emergence.”

            “Only a stellar-cycle, though. Awfully short time to take a conjunx and become sparked.”

            “You seem overly concerned with my sparkling’s conception,” said Mirage. “Did you, perhaps, expect to bear witness?”

            Finesse smothered a laugh with her servo. Dash Over didn’t bother hiding it. Grandeur glared at all of them. “The only thing I expect is that I am not the first—nor will I be the last—to understand the concept of math.”

            Until that point, Finesse had been content to remain on the sidelines and watch the rest of them work their conversation out. At Grandeur’s last comment, however, she rose sharply from her seat and said, “Moonracer separated prematurely. She was sick for a long time, and now we are blessed with a healthy, lively youngling. Mirage almost died carrying her, but he is here, graciously allowing you into our home, and you repay that by insulting us. For what? For having a sparkling when we decided we were ready to?”

            Grandeur’s faceplate scrunched. Her lipplates curled in distaste. But she said nothing. She could talk back to Mirage all she wanted; she could never talk back to Finesse, social status be damned.

            After a painfully long pause, Dash Over clapped his servos together. “How about a humorous story? So, I was driving to Iacon a few deca-cycles ago, and…”


	3. Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Edit 1/23/16:** This chapter has been completely rewritten since it was originally posted.

            Hound set down his pruning shears the moment a pair of small servos clapped over his optics. Stellar-cycles before, the sudden loss of sight would have terrified him, especially with a youngling around. By then, he was used to Moonracer’s antics and could react reflexively to prevent her from getting hurt. He didn’t know how she continued sneaking out to visit him after Mirage had explicitly told her not to, but she pouted and looked at him with such sadness in her optics when Hound tried to send her back indoors. He decided that, as long as he kept watch over her and kept her safe, she could stay while he worked.

            “Guess who?” she chirped.

            “Hm,” said Hound, feigning deep thought. “Is this Culinary?”

            “Nope!”

            He hummed, taking a little longer the second time around, “Oh, I know! You must be the mech I met in the market the other day.”

            “Not at all,” she laughed.

            “Well, then…you must be sweet, little Moonracer!”

            Moonracer pulled her servos away. “That’s sweet, _big_ Moonracer now!”

            She was right. She had not yet reached the age of initial upgrades, but she had grown a lot over the stellar-cycles in a way only sparked mechs could. Moonracer was still fairly small compared to a fully-programmed mech, but she was big enough that Hound couldn’t play shuttle with her anymore, though he could still lift her up and twirl her around once.

            “Oof, you are a big mech now, aren’t you? Too big for games and drawing…” He laughed when Moonracer scrunched her faceplate. “Oh, okay, maybe not that big yet.” Hound knelt again to the minerals he was tending, took up his shears, and continued harvesting from the growing crystals.

            Moonracer leaned down next to him to watch. “What’s this?” she asked, as she’d taken to doing whenever she visited.

            “Cadmium,” he said. “We’ve had bad conditions for cultivating it until recently, but this is a good additive for energon on sols when your engine is sluggish. Just a pinch adds an extra kick to your energy levels, but too much can make you hallucinate.” Hound collected the harvested metal in a pouch before moving to the next structure.

            “And that?” she asked, pointing a little ways away.

            “Beryllium,” he told her. They made a routine of him guiding her through the minerals he was tending depending on the solar-cycle, which were good additives for energon, which were meant to be consumed with treats, which could only be consumed after preparation, which were for cleaning dentae, and which were not meant to be ingested at all. He told her, in the simplest terms possible, which were grown to ward off pests and which were for decoration. When the unofficial lesson was done, he cut a piece of carbon for her to draw with.

            Just before Moonracer disappeared behind a decorative brush of dead wires, Hound felt something like a punch to his tank. Moonracer looked so much like Mirage, it was uncanny sometimes. There were some differences not wholly accounted for by age, but some angles made the resemblance impossible to ignore. Not that it should have been a surprise, with Mirage being her Carrier, but the reminder of her creators led to other, dangerous thoughts.

            Hound wasn’t deaf, and he wasn’t stupid. Once Grandeur’s insinuations spread through the rumor mill, it wasn’t long before Moonracer’s attachment to Hound got blended in. And, when Hound himself knew the truth of his affair with his master, all the denial on Cybertron wouldn’t have kept him from wondering. If it had just been interface with Mirage, there wouldn’t have been a chance. Because spark-merge was a part of it, there was a possibility—a cruel, painful, too good and too horrible for hope possibility—that Moonracer was Hound’s creation, not Finesse’s.

            When he thought about it, it made too much sense. Thanks to a vorn of service under Mirage and his line, Hound knew quite a lot about Finesse that few others did. From what he understood, she had no interest in romance or creating a sparkling until she became Mirage’s conjunx endura, and she didn’t seem like the kind of mech that would change her mind unless her servo was forced. Mirage would never force her into a spark-merge—at least, Hound seriously doubted he would—but the threat on her friend of an illegitimate sparkling would be reason enough for Finesse.

            And a part of Hound couldn’t help but swell with pride at the possibility that he had sired a sparkling. It was the excitement of knowing he had done something forbidden to his caste and gotten away with it, along with the joy that his possible sparkling was the sweet bundle of joy and hope that was Moonracer. The youngling really did brighten his solar-cycles spent in service, and the thought that she could be his creation, his responsibility…

            The pure elation only set him up for greater sorrow. What would knowing for certain that Moonracer was his creation really change? He was a mere gardener: commissioned as a servant and destined to be a servant, forever. If he knew she was his, his station in life would be no different. He could never let the planet know, never raise her for himself, never hold her for more than a klik, and never be more to Mirage than the mech who grew and harvested his minerals or sculpted his landscape.

            Interface was a simple physical act. It meant something to some mechs, but not to all mechs. It was messy and exhausting and a lot of fun, but it was only more than an exchange of energy if the mechs involved thought it was more. Mirage clearly didn’t think it was anything more.

            Spark-merging, on the other servo—even if it didn’t result in a permanent bond and wasn’t combined with interface to create a newspark—was almost always considered far more intimate. It wasn’t just exchanging energy; it was leaving yourself completely bare and vulnerable and trusting yourself completely with another mech or mechs. Even proponents of casual interface didn’t dare suggest casual spark-merging. Mirage seemed find it all too easy to cast him aside after such a deep and emotional act, and that hurt more than stopping after being pulled into the noble’s berth would have.

            But Hound would have to be a complete fool to give voice to these feelings, knowing the peril it would place them all in. Finesse and Mirage stood to lose the least, but they would still be punished for their involvement in the scandal. Hound stood to lose everything he knew for his sin of “defiling” a noble and bringing an “unnatural” spark upon Cybertron. He didn’t even want to consider what would happen to Moonracer.

            Hound was a smart mech. He knew to only take on as much risk as he could actually handle. He had knowledge beyond what was intended for his caste, and he continued to sneak datapads meant only for the intellectual elite when he could get away with it. His dreams were greater than he was supposed to have; Hound dreamt of adventure and exploration and driving on terrain he could only imagine. He wanted to see life and nature outside of the contained, controlled, artificial sphere in which he worked. That dream and the datapads that fed his yearning were dangerous enough without a secret sparkling on top of them.

            When Hound finished his duties for the sol, he returned his tools to their proper places and headed for the exit. He happened to run into Moonracer’s tutor on the way out. Hound liked the mech well enough. He could be a bit wordy when he got excited, but he was likable enough, and he was willing to chat a bit about science with Hound and never treated him as though he was beneath the information. And if sometimes the mech got “distracted” enough for Hound to read a page in one of the datapads he was carrying, well, neither of them were about to say anything.

            “How’d Lady Moonracer’s lesson go today?” asked Hound.

            “I believe I may have finally impressed some knowledge upon her,” the mech replied, half facetious and half genuinely pleased. “I have never seen her half so attentive as she was this sol.” From previous stories, it was clear that formal lessons were not Moonracer’s favorite use of a few joors.

            “I’ve never found trouble teaching her about the mineral gardens. Maybe she just needs more outdoor lessons.”

            “I can imagine Lords Mirage and Finesse granting a thunderous approval,” the tutor said dryly. “I have a shuttle to catch, so I must take my leave now. Take care.”

            “You, too.” They went their separate ways from there, with Hound heading directly for his favorite oilhouse. It was a fantastic atmosphere, a great place to find company and unwind from a solar-cycle’s work. Even on those days when he found himself there without a friendly faceplate, the energon was good enough to melt the tension from his struts. But sometimes, he was lucky, and one of the mechs willing to smuggle him datapads would be there.

            On that sol, he was fortunate enough to find Beachcomber waiting for him, half slumped against the bench of a booth. As he drew closer, he could hear Beachcomber sigh in contentment, and that made Hound chuckle. If every mech could’ve had half the satisfaction with life that Beachcomber had, Cybertron would’ve been a much happier place.    

            Hound slid into the seat across from him and asked, “How are the roads, treating you, mech?” He knocked on the table twice, and a server rose from the bar to take his order.

            “What roads? The best of life takes you where there, like, aren’t any,” said Beachcomber. It was a customary greeting for them. Beachcomber’s work as a scientist kept him moving and exploring, living out a function Hound could only wish he could have. Beachcomber understood, and it just sort of became their way of saying all was going well enough. “It’s been groovy, mech. Totally worth the sore undercarriage.”

            “Something good happen, then?”

            “Something big.” Beachcomber rested his elbows on the table and leaned over in a manner that might have been described as “conspiratorially” if the mech didn’t still seem completely and totally relaxed. “Some miners were working in a cave when they, like, accidentally tapped into an unidentified pool. The site’s totally locked down aside from approved personnel. A few of us are being sent to find out what the stuff is.” His voice dropped lower. “Word is it might be electrum.”

            Hound was dumbstruck. It took the clunk of his energon being set on the table to snap him out of his stupor. He thanked the server, pulled his cube close, and leaned in closer towards his friend. “Electrum? Are you sure?”

            “Not until we finish testing, but signs point to, ‘yeah, probably,’ so far. The Council is layin’ on the pressure to get this stuff identified and secured. Not sure why they’d put in the effort if it wasn’t.”

            “They think someone might try to use it, uh, unauthorized or something?”

            Beachcomber pursed his lipplates. “Dunno, mech. There’s trouble brewing; that’s all I’m sayin’. When it comes, I’m lookin’ to lay low. The Council? I think they’re goin’ for a more preemptive approach.” Despite the visor—or maybe because of it—his expression looked astonishingly somber. But within a klik, he was back to grinning. “So, the boss-mech looking for any new exotic minerals?”

            Normally, that would be about when they would start the coded negotiation for new datapads, but Hound felt himself stalling that time. “Actually, the boss-mech hasn’t been making any direct requests, lately. He’s been keeping his distance from the gardens.”

            “Nn.” Beachcomber nodded. “Sounds like you could use a little stress relief. Maybe I should’ve offered _you_ ‘exotic minerals.’”

            Hound cleared his vocalizer. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, ‘Comber, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea with work in the morning and the youngling on the grounds…”

            “No, no. I feel you, mech. Well, if there’s anything I can, like, do for you…”

            He looked out the window, watched the mechs passing by. There was an empty feeling in his spark that he couldn’t quite shake. His grip on his cube tightened, and he took a gulp before he spoke. “I think…I think I could use a little company tonight.”


	4. Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of several "Oh, Moonie...You're going to regret saying that" chapters.
> 
>  **Edit 1/24/16:** This chapter has been almost completely rewritten. Of the chapters I rewrote, this is probably the one that kept the most the same...while still changing plenty.

            On the list of things Moonracer wasn’t good at, staying still was probably at the top. It was kind of a problem, because most of what being a noble seemed to be about was staying still. Oh, she understood that her creators also settled disputes or something along those lines, but they also had to keep their spinal struts stiff, their faceplates stiffer, and their E.M.-fields reeled in tight. That last two were especially frustrating in combination, because how else was she supposed to know what anyone was feeling?

            Turbofox hunting was different. She could keep still for turbofox hunting. Turbofox hunting was where she felt most in her element. There were times when she felt more like energy itself than she felt like a mech, and hunting was an energy. Everything was charged, from the ground beneath her pedes to the Langton’s loopbrush to the very air cycled through their vents. It lit her Carrier’s faceplate with a liveliness he rarely showed.

            Her optics also seemed tuned specifically to the movement of turbofoxes. She could barely stand looking at datapads for more than a few kliks, and video files were worse: they always seemed to flicker and distort to her in ways no one else seemed to notice. But turbofoxes were speedy, graceful things her optics could track with ease.

            Unfortunately, she wasn’t keeping still for turbofoxes. She was keeping still for the longest and most detailed washing and polishing of her function. Tools were jabbed into seams of her armor and joints to pull out every last speck of dust. Every time she thought it was safe to open her vents, another bucket of solvent was dumped over her helm. When she was clean, she still had to hold herself in place while mechs touched up her paint and added new flourishes to spots where there normally wouldn’t be any. The House of Illusia family crest was brushed across her chestplate, a statement of identity clearer than even her name.

            Finesse stood behind her, watching Moonracer through the mirror. “If you do not like this, be grateful that you are preparing for an introduction and not a formal ball,” Finesse said. She offered Moonracer a sympathetic smile. “You become accustomed to these washes. Eventually, you even learn to love them.” Seeing the doubtful expression on her faceplate, she said, “I promise. Don’t you feel lighter already?”

            Moonracer couldn’t deny that. She hated the cleaning tools, but she felt like a slab of wall had been lifted from her pauldrons. She wasn’t sure she believed the process of getting there was ever going to be something she enjoyed, but the result wasn’t bad, and at least it wasn’t something she had to do every solar-cycle.

            Finesse stepped forward and gently tilted Moonracer’s faceplate up until it held straight and proud. Then, she moved her servos to the youngling’s pauldrons. “Aubade is our friend’s creation. Your Carrier intends for you to be betrothed to him.”

            “Is meeting him going to feel like courtship in the falsehood truths?”

            “It can.”

            “And if it doesn’t?”

            If Finesse had been even a step further away, Moonracer wouldn’t have felt her E.M.-field. As close as they were, it was impossible to miss the trickle of sadness there. “You will learn to love him,” said Finesse, “in your own way.”

            When Moonracer entered the parlor, Aubade and his creators were already there. One of the servants announced her, “Lady Moonracer of House Illusia, Countess of Vanumin.” Moonracer bowed lightly. Everyone had chosen their seats so that her only option was to take the one beside Aubade.

            Aubade—or Lord Aubade, House Alba, Count of Trobai, as he was introduced to her—was a head taller than her. Like her, he was before his first upgrade and did not have his wheels yet. However, the trained optic could tell a protoformed mech from a sparked one; he was obviously the former. His paintjob was dark and simplistic, which was not a mark against him in a family that favored simpler beauty, but was not remarkable enough to charm her, either, and his faceplate was, likewise, only vaguely pretty and without unique feature.

            It goes without saying that Moonracer failed to find the magic fables always promised. She was not swept up in excitement the moment she laid optics on him. But she kept what her Sire told her in mind and tried to give Aubade the chance to make her fall in love with him. If it was what her Carrier wanted, she would learn to love him.

            “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Moonracer,” he said.

            “Not at all; the pleasure is mine.”

            This small exchange, once finished, killed their conversation for nearly a klik. Moonracer could not get a read on Aubade’s faceplate or his E.M.-field. It was different from her confusion with fully-programmed mechs, however, in that older mechs seemed to hold all of their feelings back, whereas Aubade didn’t appear to have any feelings at all. He seemed empty, and that was more off-putting than anything she had ever had to deal with before.

            “How are you?” she blurted.

            “Well.”

            “Ah. I’m well as well.”As they slipped back into awkward silence, Moonracer had to fight the urge to fidget. Stillness was still not her forte.

            She glanced around the room, at the older mechs having their own conversations, and sought something that might break the awful tension she could feel building. She spotted their electropiano at the corner of the parlor. “I’m not very good at playing music. I don’t have the servos for it. I wish I could, because we have an electropiano that’s just gathering dust without anyone playing it.”

            “I was admiring it before you came in,” he confessed. A blue tint rose to his cheekplates. “I, uh…really enjoy playing electropiano, but I didn’t want to presume, playing it without being invited to…”

            Moonracer immediately latched onto the first display of emotion or personality he showed. “An instrument is meant for playing, isn’t it? You should play for us!” She took him by the servo and led him to the electropiano. They sat side-by-side on the bench, and Aubade stretched his fingers and began to play.

            The older mechs dropped their conversation within a few nano-kliks of the piece. Aubade was a skilled player, and he chose a gentle, pleasant piece for his impromptu recital. It filled the room with a comforting air.

            By the end of the visit, Moonracer’s impression of Aubade was that he was pleasant, sweet, and talented, but a bit dull. Not someone she could dislike, but not someone she would wish to spend extended periods of time around, either. The most she could say was that her gesture with the electropiano seemed to have made everyone happy, and the visiting family left in very good spirits.

            But the moment she could escape attention, she slipped out of the manor and its grounds. Normally, when she sneaked out, she would remain within the gardens, since her lack of wheels made the driving courses difficult to use and because she had never gone beyond the gates unaccompanied. She had to get out, though. She had sat and been good long enough, and Hound had spoken so often of the market that she had developed a gnawing curiosity towards them.

            Moonracer had walked the grounds enough times that she had a detailed mental map of the best spots to hide and the gaps in the walls a youngling to squeeze through. She acquired several scratches and a new layer of dust on her way out, but then she was free to run to the market as fast as her little youngling pedes would carry her.

            The market was more than she had ever imagined. Stalls stretched down the road as far as her optics could see. Energon goodies and warm, fresh rust sticks filled the air with their scent, and she pulled in a deep vent just to take it all in. There were so many beaded wares and minerals like she had never seen, even in her stellar-cycles of visiting Hound, that at a certain point, her optics grew tired with trying to take all the shapes and colors in.

            That was until her optics caught on the most curious sight of all: a mech with intense, red optics, unlike she had ever seen before. He was leaning just inside a dark alley in the gap between stalls. He was a protoformed mech, like Aubade, and likely around the same age. His plating was as dark as the shadows that surrounded him, black and purple. He was watching Moonracer with sheer focus and a playful smirk, and he flicked his wing-nubs before darting further into the alley. She felt almost as though a servo had reached inside her and tugged her down into the shadows after him.

            Moonracer found the mysterious mech seated at a low table with three cups set across it, and she sat down across from him. “You look like a mech in desperate need of entertainment,” he said.

            “You can tell that just by looking at me?” She stared at him, half impressed and half wondering why she felt that she should know something about mechs with red optics. The information sat in the back of her processor and refused to step forward.

            “Just by the look of you,” the dark mech confirmed. “I have a game you might like. See this ball?” He produced a red ball seemingly from nowhere. “I’m gonna put it under one of these three cups, and then I’ll mix them up. All you have to do is guess which cup the ball is under.”

            “Okay!” She was liking this challenge already. There was a certain energy in the air, not wholly unlike turbofox hunting. It was a different kind of test of skill, but one she felt she could get behind.

            “Ah, but one last thing before we start, my fine new friend…This game is a lot more fun if we wager credits on it. Five to start?”

            Five credits was practically nothing to her, so she fished out the requested wager and let the game begin. The mech had deft servos, swishing around the cups like a musician playing electropiano, a rhythm and tune all his own. When at last he came to a stop, he lifted his servos away slowly.

            “Now, if you can, tell me where the ball—”

            “It’s under that one.” She pointed to the cup on the right.

            “Impressive.” He lifted the cup to reveal the ball. “Maybe we can make this more challenging. Double or nothing?”

            Moonracer agreed easily. She was having fun, so she saw no reason to stop after only one round. The mech added two more cups to the table, placed the ball under one, and began the game anew. His pace was faster this time, but no less skilled. But the faster pace was also accompanied by a pair of flashes of purple, and her instincts told her to pay attention to that. When the cups came to a stop once more, he raised his optic ridges ever so slightly and said, “Tell me where the ball is now.”

            “There,” she said, pointing to the center-left cup after only a moment’s hesitance.

            “Oo, so sorry, but—” He lifted the cup, and there the ball was. His wing-nubs flicked his surprise. “Huh. No one usually gets that far. One more round, for four times your initial wager?”

            “Yes, please!”

            In the next round, the mech’s movements became even faster, but he was sloppier with desperation. He compensated for the loss in subtlety with several flashes of purple, but Moonracer was confident that she had caught on to their significance. She didn’t know how the mech was doing it, but she got the idea of what he was doing.

            “Where is it now?” the mech asked, a slight crack hitting his voice.

            She looked at him with an expression of pure confusion. “It’s not under any of the cups,” she said. “It’s in your left servo.”

            He lashed out his right servo and grabbed her arm. “Hey, what’s the big idea, you cheater!? Are you trying to rob me or something?”

            She recoiled, optics wide, and tried to tug her arm out of his grip, to no avail. The mech held on like a vice. “W-what are you talking about? I thought we were just playing a game.”

            “Don’t play dumb with me, mech. You know perfectly well—”

            Before he could tell her what she supposedly knew “perfectly well,” they were interrupted by an Enforcer appearing at the end of the alley, raising his pistol, and shouting, “Freeze, both of you!”

            “Frag,” the dark mech muttered. He pulled his supplies and credits into subspace, and then he…Well, Moonracer didn’t know what he did, but they were both enveloped in purple, and then they were suddenly in a completely new portion of Uraya, far from the town where the market was held. “Fragging cheater,” he grumbled to himself, “tricking me out of my hard-earned credits and almost getting me caught by the Enforcers.”

            “Um, I didn’t cheat,” she corrected. “I just played the game just like you told me to.”

            The mech apparently hadn’t noticed he’d taken her with him, because he jumped at the sound of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

            “You were still holding my arm when you…” She scrunched her faceplate, trying to make sense of what had happened and how they had gotten where they were. “Teleported?” She stared at him in realization. “You’re an outlier!”

            “N-no, I’m not! I—”

            “That’s so cool!”

            His wing-nubs twitched. “You think so?”

            “Yeah! My Carrier is one, too, but I didn’t get his power. I’m so jealous.” Her Carrier’s electro-disruptor, a natural device in his system that would be completely unnatural in most mechs, was a well-kept family secret. Moonracer only knew about it because she had accidentally found him while he was invisible once. She didn’t think he would mind if she only told another outlier, though.

            Since the first time since she had thwarted his cup game, the mech smirked. “Heh. Well, what can I say? I’m awesome.” He extended a servo. “Skywarp.”

            She shook it. “Moonracer. I swear I didn’t cheat at our game. Why did you get so upset when I kept winning?”

            “The academy…They don’t exactly get how cool outliers are, and they don’t let us have extra rations, and with the energy it takes to power my warp drive…”

            “That’s awful!”

            “Yeah, well…The Vosian War Academy isn’t really known for its kindness and generosity.”

            “Wait,” said Moonracer, “The Vosian War Academy?” Suddenly, the significance of his red optics clicked for her. Only the lowest of the low castes, like warbuilds, were supposed to have them. Red optics were a sign to stay away, if you valued your spark. But Skywarp having red optics struck her as intensely wrong. “You aren’t stupid or mean enough to be a warbuild. A-and besides, you’re obviously protoformed, not constructed.”

            “Who told you warbuilds are mean and stupid!?” he screeched. “And what do you mean, pointing out being protoformed, like you’re _not?_ ” For the first time, he caught sight of the crest on her chestplate. At once, his frame went rigid. “You said your Carrier is an outlier. You were sparked!”

            As he started to leave, she grabbed his pauldron to stop him. “What, do have a problem with sparked mechs?”

            He rounded back on her and bowed mockingly. “Oh, none at all, Princess.”

            Moonracer clenched her fists. “I’m not a princess! I am Lady Moonracer, House Illusia, Countess of Vanumin and heir to the Marquis of Vertex!”

            “Because that’s so much better! Explains why your dear, precious Carrier can manage to live as an outlier in peace.” He shoved past her and started off again. “I’ll just leave you to your mindless, happy little life. Oof!”

            Servos dug painfully into the plating above his wing-nubs, and knees crushed into his back. Moonracer huffed and puffed angrily as she pushed him further into the ground.

            “Get off of me!”

            “No!”

            “I’m warning you!”

            “Not until you promise!”

            “Promise what?” he growled as he pushed himself off the ground. Moonracer lost her balance and toppled off, into the mineral dust below. Skywarp pinned her down in revenge. “Just because I’m lower caste doesn’t mean I owe you scrap!”

            Moonracer scratched at him, scrabbling for some kind of hold, some advantage that could get him off of her. When that failed, she gripped his pauldrons and grit her dentae. Skywarp waited for the inevitable threats, insults, and ranting. What he wasn’t prepared for was what she actually said.

            “Teach me.”

            His grip on her loosened. “What?”

            “I don’t want to live a happy life if it’s mindless,” she explained. “So teach me what I’m missing. Teach me what’s going on outside the nobility. If you aren’t being treated right, I want to learn what’s wrong and make it better.”

            Skywarp growled, pushing her down harder. “Even if I show you, you can ignore it. Precious little princesses like you always have the option to go back to your little lives of luxury while mine die in gutters, ignored and unrecognized.”

            “Give me the chance to fight with you,” she insisted, tightening her grip. “I want to fight for justice, but I can’t do that until I see the injustice I’m fighting against.”

            He kept her down for another klik, glaring at her the whole time like he could burn away deception with a look. “Fine,” he finally spat, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Moonie.” He pulled them both to their pedes and activated his warp drive.


	5. Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marvelous Misadventures of Moonracer and Skywarp! Watch and be amazed as they remain blissfully unaware of how freaked out Mirage is!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Edit 1/24/16:** I've made several revisions to this chapter. I'm not totally convinced it doesn't need to be rewritten like the previous chapters, but I'm leaving it like this for now.

            It took a few nanokliks for Moonracer to readjust her optics. Skywarp had taken her from natural light to blinding-bright teleportation to somewhere so dark it might as well have been Unicron’s intake. If she had to describe their surroundings in three words, it would be “dark, dank, and dismal.” They were in what could only be described as the pits of a city, and not one she could readily identify. The densely-packed, grungy buildings that surrounded them were completely unlike the gleaming towers of Uraya or Iacon she was used to seeing.

            There was also a powerful stench in the air that made her gag, like the reek of turbofox pellets that had been left out too long, yet she could find no evidence that turbofoxes had ever been there, live or dead. She closed her vents, but that wasn’t much better. The scent was gone, but the air was so hot that she could feel her systems protesting the lack of circulation. She quickly had to give in, open back up her vents, and pray that she became accustomed to the odor.

            Skywarp tugged her against the nearest wall and started scratching at the emblem on her chest. “What are you doing?” she asked, trying not to raise her voice.

            “You can’t be seen with that,” he hissed. “Do you know what they’d do to me if anyone figured out you’re a noble? Rub some grease on your face or something.” When she’d done as told, he took her hand and looked around the corner of the nearest building. “Keep a look out for Enforcers.”

            Even with Moonracer in disguise, they had to sneak a peek around every darkened corner before running to the next one. She could feel her spark whirling dreadfully in her chest. The streets were cold, dirty, and unfamiliar, but that’s not what scared her. It was the idea of being caught. Punishments from her creators were bad enough, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine what an unfamiliar mech would do to her. If an Enforcer caught them, she knew the whole situation would be misread, and Skywarp would come out even worse than she would.

            But she trusted Skywarp completely. They only just met, but Primus, did she trust him. He was a warbuild, larger than her, and could have killed her and left her behind instead of taking the care to keep them both safe and out of sight. Besides that, though, she felt like there was something she could read in him, in the movement of his wing-nubs and the flare of his E.M.-field, that she’d always missed at home.

            He apparently noticed her staring because he smirked and said, “Yeah, I know, I have Cybertron’s most handsome faceplate.”

            She punched his arm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just thinking that you could’ve killed me if you wanted.”

            “And have the entire planet out for my chassis? Sure. I could still sell you.”

            “After you soiled my paint job and devalued me?”

            “Just making sure no one else steals my merch. Besides, no one’s going to buy a marked noble. Too easily tracked.” His words might have been more worrying without the sparkle of the game in his optics and the lilt of a joke in his voice.

            His faceplate darkened at the sound of laughter and approaching pedefall. “Hold on to me and look at me like you just couldn’t wait for a berth.”

            “You want me to…pretend I’m falling asleep?” asked Moonracer.

            “No, just—” He made a low noise in his throat. In one swift movement, he picked her up and pushed her against a wall. She instinctively wrapped her arms and legs around him, terrified of falling. “Look at me like you couldn’t want anything on Cybertron more than me.”

            The mechs passed right by them. A couple wolf-whistled and shouted things Moonracer didn’t understand at them. Otherwise, they were left alone. When the mechs were out of sight, Skywarp let her back down gently.

            She was still trying to make sense of what just happened. “What was that about? Why did you…? What were they…?”

            He snorted. “Sexless nobles.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged her down the next alley.

~----------~

            “Moonracer?” Mirage rapped his knuckles on her door. When he received no answer, he opened the door and peeked inside. By this point in their lives, his youngling’s absence from the room wasn’t surprising. The only reason he still looked there first was out of habit. He had been raising her long enough that he had a list of places to check in order by most likely hiding spot.

            He started from her favorite rooms indoors. It would take willful ignorance not to know that Moonracer still liked sneaking out, but she had minimized her ventures outdoors over the stellar-cycles, and he was in no rush to visit the gardens for himself besides. As the list of unchecked rooms dwindled, however, and as more servants confessed they had not seen the youngling since her introduction to Aubade, he knew he could not put off visiting the gardens forever. He was barely clamping down a rising panic, and he had to hope that he was only fighting an overreaction.

            Mirage kept his steps only slightly faster than usual as he walked through the main garden. He knew his sparkling always loved sitting in an imperfection in the boundary of the garden where she could hide from view and not be caught disobeying his rule about the gardens. But even after bending down to look through a decorative piece meant to hide the flaw in the wall, he still found her absent.

            “Lord Mirage, sir, is there something I may help you with?”

            The noble stiffened. That voice was one of the last he wanted to hear, only just ahead of Grandeur. Just the sound of the gardener’s voice made guilt squeeze his tank. But his fear for his youngling outweighed his desire to avoid the mech. “Hound, where is Moonracer?”

            Hound’s gentle faceplate turned worried. “Is she not inside? I haven’t seen her all solar-cycle.”

            “I see.” His spark was sinking. What if Moonracer had been kidnapped? There were guards, but if his youngling could sneak out, then a professional criminal could easily get in. He could receive a ransom call at any moment. She could already be lost to youngling-trafficking. Someone could have slaughtered her as a political statement—or worse, the truth of her parentage could have reached the Council. Anything seemed possible in that moment.

            “Sir?”

            Hound seemed almost as scared as he was, and that might have had Mirage breaking down right there were it not for the need to find his creation overriding everything else. “No, Moonracer isn’t inside,” he confessed. “Keep an optic out for her. Search every mechanometer of the grounds if you must, but we need to find her.”

            “Mirage…” Hound faltered, shocked by his own informality. “Lord Mirage,” he corrected. “Is it possible that Moonracer left the grounds?”

            Somehow, despite his composure threatening to shatter, the noble furrowed his optic ridges and asked, “Where would she go?”

~----------~

            Moonracer waited for Skywarp to peel open a grate at the end of an alley. It creaked under his efforts, and she kept glancing over her shoulder like they were going to be stopped at any time. When the space was at last open wide enough for them to squeeze in, one after the other, Skywarp ushered her through first. The tunnel he directed her through was small enough that they had to crawl, and it was slick with something Moonracer couldn’t recognize and wasn’t sure she wanted to. Eventually, they reached another loose grate, and she and Skywarp tumbled out of the tunnel and into a sort of chamber.

            There was no roof; they were still outside. The chamber was more or less the same as the alleys he’d taken her down, but much wider, kind of square, and a bit cleaner. Grafiti was on the walls, one of the most prominent of a grim faceplate. A fold-out table was set up towards one side of the chamber. There were five mechs seated around it. The biggest of the mechs—a beige and purple one with a build she couldn’t quite recognize—was shuffling a deck of cards. They all looked up at the groan of the grate.

            Skywarp’s arrival was greeted with a round of cheers. “‘Ey! ‘Warp! You made it. And who’s this pretty little thing you brought with you?” A blue minicon leered at Moonracer.

            “Who are you calling a ‘little thing,’ short stack?” she shot back.

            “Don’t mind him; that’s just Frenz—Rum—Fr…” Skywarp scratched his helm. “Uh, you know, I always forget whether the blue one or the red one is Frenzy and which is Rumble.”

            “And you will never find out,” the red one said.

            “Yeah, whatever. Just don’t mind them. The pink one is Flip Sides. _Do_ mind her.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “She’s sweet to your faceplate, but she cheats like a pro. I’ve never caught her in the act, but we all know she does it.”

            “You can trust me, though,” said the mech nearest to them.

            “Pfft. Yeah, as much as a hydro-weasel. That’s Swindle, and if you have to sit anywhere near him, it better be between me and Blitzwing.”

            “I’ve been meaning to ask about Blitzwing,” Moonracer said. “What _is_ he? I’ve never seen any build like him.”

            Apparently, she’d asked a little too loud, because Blitzwing’s faceplate spun around and switched to a new one right before her optics. “ _I_ am a powerful warrior who could rip your servos off and weld them to your helm, and don’t you forget it!”

            The rest of the table burst out laughing as Moonracer stumbled back into Skywarp’s chestplate. “He’s kind of touchy. Experimental frame tinkering gave him an extra vehicle mode, but it kind of messed with his central processor. But he’s fun, if you give him a chance.”

            “Thanks for the warning.”

            “Come on, Moonie. He’s safe.”

            “Safe as a photovoltaic pussycat in an acid storm,” yet another of Blitzwing’s faceplates said before cackling.

            “I like my chances, then,” Moonracer said as she took her seat next to Blitzwing. “Photovoltaic cats get pretty creative with finding shelter.”

            “Drift showing up?” asked Skywarp.

            Swindle shook his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s finally overdosed on boosters and burnt out his spark.”

            Cards were dealt. Everyone threw in their credits to wager, and then the game began. Moonracer wasn’t really sure what they were playing, but they were still wagering sums that meant nothing to her budget. The style of comradery was also completely unlike she was used to. She would never hear nobles openly and directly insulting each other, and nobles would never laugh the way these mechs did about being insulted.

            She ended up folding the first two rounds. It wasn’t like she couldn’t spare the credits, and the rules didn’t make sense when she’d never learned them. For the first few rounds, she pretended to get it much more than she actually did. After the first few, she realized that pretending was a big part of how you play, anyway.

            Once she stopped focusing on trying to learn, it also gave her a chance to keep an optic on the others expressions and actions throughout the game. Rumble and Frenzy looked to be constantly on the verge of wrestling, even as they kept their optics strictly on their own cards. Swindle kept reaching towards Skywarp and getting his servo slapped away. But she was most interested in Flip Sides.

            “Aha! Caught you!” shouted Moonracer. She slammed her cards down on the table and grinned manically at the pink minicon. That startled the others into attention. “Skywarp, you wanted your proof? Check this little piece from my memory banks.”

            Moonracer sent them all a clip. A few seconds in, Skywarp snickered. “Wow, Moonie, your hand is scrap this turn.”

            “Don’t watch my hand; watch _Flip Sides’_.”

            “I don’t see anything.”

            “All I see is a whole lot of staring,” the red minicon grumbled. “You interrupted our game for this?”

            “Wait.” Blitzwing’s cooler personality rubbed his chin and closed his optics. “Try slowing the video down.”

            “Hey, you’re right! Flip Sides keeps switching out her cards while the rest of us are distracted! Cheater.”

            Flip Sides didn’t even bother trying to defend herself. She just turned with a glower on Moonracer. “How did you even _see_ that?”

            “That’s nothing,” said Skywarp. He wrapped an arm around Moonracer’s pauldrons. “You should have seen her when I tried my cups routine on her.”

~----------~

            “I believe I saw her with a con artist who’s known for doing his cups scam around here,” the Enforcer told Mirage.

            Mirage tightened his jaw and straightened his shoulders, giving the mech the hardest glare he could muster. “Are you suggesting that a youngling—one not yet old enough for her first alt. mode and of a noble family at that—would be caught up in gambling?”

            “Ah! N-no! Of course not, Lord Mirage,” the Enforcer fumbled out. “I mean, the mech I saw her with couldn’t have been much older…” When that earned him an even harsher look, the Enforcer held up his servos in submission. “B-but it looked like he had her in a tight hold, so I doubt she stayed with him willingly! If it was her, I mean. And then they vanished into thin air.”

            Finesse, though typically careful of betraying emotional responses, startled at the suggestion. Within moments, her expression shifted to one of incredulity. But Mirage and Hound both jolted more with worry than surprise. “Moonracer was taken by an outlier?”

            “I only think it was her, but I’m sure someone matching her description was taken.”

            “Well, then, what are you waiting for? Fan the city! Find her before that scoundrel does something to her,” ordered Mirage. The Enforcer scrambled off, comm.-ing others on the force, as evidenced by the way he held his arm as he ran.

            Finesse wrapped her arms around Mirage’s pauldrons. “All will be well, dear. They will find Moonracer soon enough.”

            “I just don’t understand what could have gotten into her, Finesse,” he replied, leaning back into her hold. “She has _never_ wandered from home without an attendant before, and she would never talk to a stranger. We taught her better than that. What if that Enforcer was right? What if that con artist took her as…as…payment for his debts? What if he sold her on the labor market, or—”

            “Shhhhh.” She held him closer. “Moonracer will come back to us if they have to drag that mech from the depths of the Pit itself and make him spit her out. If I find out that he tried anything with her, I will have his servos cut off and see how he likes cheating people and taking their younglings _then_.”

            Hound felt hollow. If Moonracer had been taken, it was his fault for telling her about the market in the first place. If she hadn’t, it was still his fault for leading her creators out on a fruitless chase that only caused them unnecessary panic. He hated himself for getting jealous of Finesse for being the one to comfort Mirage, but he hated himself even more for potentially putting their creation—and someone precious to him—in danger.

            But he could dwell in that feeling, or he could take action. “My lords,” he said, bowing. “If you would allow me…I have a built-in scanner that I usually use to check the ground before planting, but with a few minor adjustments, it may be able to track specific energy signals. If you would allow me the leave to do so, I could join the search for Moonracer.”

            Mirage stepped towards him, and Finesse’s arms slipped from his pauldrons. She took his servo and linked their fingers instead. “Hound, you would do that for us?”

            He almost let the words, “For you,” slip out, but he caught himself. In their place, he said, “It’s my duty to be of service to you, my lord. I will not return until she’s been found.”

~----------~

            The group dispersed a little at a time so as not to draw attention to their little corner of the city. Blitzwing was the first to leave. Moonracer would’ve thought that, as the biggest, he would be the easiest to get caught and thus last to leave, but Skywarp explained that he belonged to the war academy closest by and could get away with being seen walking around there.

            Rumble and Frenzy left next, but not before they’d knocked Skywarp to the ground and had a good brawl. It made Moonracer laugh so hard she had to bite her lower lip plate to muffle the sound. From what she’d heard about minicons, she’d never expected to see a pair of them take down a Seeker.

            Flip Sides left shortly after them. She stopped in front of Moonracer long enough to say, “I like you, kid. You’re talented. Stay out of my game next time.

            Moonracer thought for sure they would be leaving next. But when she started towards Skywarp to help him up, Swindle stopped her.

            “You don’t belong down here,” he said. He didn’t elaborate immediately, but she got from the way he was examining her that he wasn’t looking for a response either. “I don’t know who you really are or what caste you’re from, ‘Moonie,’ but it takes more than a little grease to hide the look of the social elite.”

            She didn’t have the faintest idea why, but something about Swindle was starting to send a chill up her spinal strut. The others hadn’t noticed anything about her other than that they’d never met her before, or if they had, they hadn’t cared. Something about the way Swindle reacted to her, though…It wasn’t a threat, but it made her wires feel tight all the same.

            He never once dropped his smile, though. He just flicked a card out of his wrist and handed it to her. “If you ever need anything, come find me. Whatever you need, I’m sure I can provide it.”

            Of all the mechs she’d met that night, Swindle walked out the most casually. Her spark was still whirring pretty fast, so when Skywarp touched her elbow, she almost hit him. When she was calm again, she asked, “What’s his deal?”

            “Swindle’s…the highest caste mech in our crew had until you showed up,” said Skywarp. “Small name merchant. Keeps a legitimate business to cover for his black market dealings.”

            “Any reason for him to know the nobility?”

            “Only if he gets more than a nickname from you.” Skywarp paused, poking his glossa out and looking off to the side. If Moonracer had to guess, he was probably checking some internal readings. “I’m going to need to refuel before we head on anywhere else. Hang on to me.”

            He teleported them somewhere a little cleaner, but not by much. From there, it was a short walk to an oilhouse, and they didn’t even have to be sneaky this time. Skywarp ordered a couple of cubes of energon for them both, but Moonracer insisted on paying.

            She nearly choked on the first sip. After forcing the fuel down, she leaned close to Skywarp and asked, “Is _this_ what you usually drink? It’s disgusting.”

            “You wanted the authentic experience of a low-caste mech.”

            “But this can’t be good for your systems! You’d have to drink twice as much to get the right charge, and then you’d be in for an even longer system filtration own the line.”

            Skywarp snickered. “Well, what did you expect? Fine high grade for the expendable masses? I’m a warbuild, Moonie. We learn to run on low and crude reserves.”

            The look she gave her energon was dirtier than the fuel. He happily slid her cube over to his side of the table while he was still chugging his own. He tossed the first empty cube to the floor and let it smash. Any complaint Moonracer might have had was silenced by the sight of other patrons doing the same.

            “Alright, I think you’re done with your first glimpse of the hard life. Too much at once, and I think you might burst.”

            He started to lift the second cube to his lip plates, but Moonracer stopped him. “Then why don’t I give you a taste of my life? You know, as thanks.”

            “Oo, are you going to show me mechs with wax jobs so shiny they blind you, snootily discussing art and the ‘real meaning’ behind overrated abstract sculptures while their servants rub their pedes and tell them how wonderful they are?”

            “Is…Is that an actual image you have of the nobility?”

            “It’s called exaggerating. I thought your fancy noble education would teach you that.”

            Moonracer took the extra cube from him and said, “Actually, I was going to let you feel what it’s like to drink energon that won’t clog up your tank and kill you before you even get your real wings.” She got up from her seat and headed back towards the exit, but she stopped at the door to give him a critical look. “Maybe a wash, too.”

            After the extra cube was handed over to a mech outside who looked just a deca-cycle away from becoming an empty, Moonracer had Skywarp warp them into her kitchen. Despite his mocking words, Skywarp was clearly in awe of the space. Moonracer let him peak around while she dug into storage for a cube of energon. Along the way, she found some ground cadmium and, remembering what Hound had taught her about it, took a pinch to treat Skywarp’s fuel.

            “Here,” she said, handing the cube over. Skywarp’s face twisted when he took the first sip, and that made her worry that she’d done something wrong. Maybe she’d added too much cadmium. “Are you okay?”

            “Fine, it’s just…It tastes so _different_.” He drank a little more. “I mean, you’re right. I feel… _stronger_ drinking this, but I don’t know. I guess I’m just used to the other energon.”

            “How do you think _I_ felt drinking _yours?_ ”

            “How horrible that you had to sully your pallet with my usual fuel. Clearly, we poor mechs just aren’t wise enough to buy expensive, high-quality energon.”

            The sound of shuffling pedes stopped them both. They waited a spark-stopping klik for someone to come in. Instead, the pedes moved on. “Okay, we have to hurry this up _now_.”

            Navigating the house was practically navigating the slums with the lead reversed. Moonracer checked around every corner before dragging Skywarp to their next hiding spot. There wasn’t so much as a lit headlight in the house, but Moonracer knew what she was doing. Whether Skywarp trusted that stealth was necessary or not, he at least played along.

            When they reached the bathroom, Moonracer started the bath as quickly and quietly as possible. She couldn’t keep the tap from squeaking, but she made sure it did so as little as physically possible. Once all the preparations were ready, she urged Skywarp in. “Come on; I’ll get your almost-wings for you.”

            His wing-nubs twitched. “Isn’t that a little…intimate?”

            “Intimate?” she laughed. “It’s just a wash. I get washed all the time. It feels nice to get all the dust off.” She left out the part about the tools for special washes, but she didn’t plan on subjecting him to that anyway.

            Skywarp hesitated a moment longer. “Oh…Alright. But careful where you poke your blunt little grounder fingers,” he said, and he stepped into the bath.

~----------~

            Scour was tired. Honestly, Lord Mirage had worn them all out in this search for his youngling. She had already checked every room of this oversized dwelling five times and still couldn’t find the little brat. It wasn’t like this was the first time Moonracer had disappeared and returned at her own will. Honestly, she was beginning to consider giving up, even if it meant signing her own resignation.

            Just as that thought was beginning to turn from “passing fancy” to “genuine idea,” she happened to hear a pair of voices bickering and a flurry of “shhh”s coming from behind a bathroom door. Scour kept her steps light to avoid startling the occupants as she approached. Then, when she was certain they were unaware of her presence, she flung open the door. There, sitting in the tub with fresh scratches on her faceplate and her fingers digging into some strange Seeker’s seams, was the missing youngling herself.

            “Uh,” said Moonracer.

            “Uh,” agreed her companion.

            “Moonracer, who is this…this…warbuild mutt you’ve dragged home with you?”

            The Seeker wrenched out of her grasp and rose out of the solvent. “This ‘warbuild mutt’ is the wing-left of the Winglord of Vos’ trine, and Moonracer was helping me recover after some ruffians in your city attacked me. You dare interrupt my bath, peasant?”

            “O-oh, no! Not at all...my lord. Pardon me.”

            She started to leave, but was stopped by Moonracer saying, “Oh, and Scour? Don’t warn my creators of the Crown’s Wing-Left’s visit. He was meant to be in Uraya on a private matter, and he’ll be leaving really soon.”

            “As you wish. But be warned that your creators shall wish to see you immediately upon his departure.” Scour shut the door behind herself and tried not to squeal. How lucky could she get? Not only would her masters be positively thrilled with her for being the one to locate their creation, but now she had a ripe, juicy bit of gossip to share around her company. It was just too much to hope for.

~----------~

            “Winglord’s trinemate?” scoffed Moonracer.

            “What?” Skywarp smirked. “Prince Starscream has to choose a trine eventually. He just doesn’t realize he’s gonna choose me yet.”

            She yanked him back down into the tub. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. And I’m going to be recruited for an elite army squadron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'verse is meant to be a mix of continuities, so yeah, I went with TFA-style Blitzwing. I took some liberties with pre-war Flip Sides, but I'm not sure if I'm happy, so her role may be edited in the future.
> 
> Hilariously enough, this is the short version of the chapter.


	6. Fictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumors are a dangerous thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 6 and 7 were, at varying points, two chapters (divided differently), three chapters, four chapters, or one absolutely massive chapter. At the time when they were four chapters, the titles would have been Rumors, Backstories, Tales, and Histories. Most of the Rumors, Backstories, and Tales were condensed to chapter 6, but a portion of Rumors was saved for chapter 7 with the Histories and the stub that was almost chapter 8.
> 
> This chapter makes reference to "Vosian Lanterns," which is the last italicized section of my fanfic "The Clever Turbofox and Other Falsehood Truths," if you want to read it. I think it will give you an idea of just how long I've had this fic planned.
> 
>  **Edit 1/25/16:** This chapter has gone through major edits. Good thing, too; no one pointed out that there were major inconsistencies before!

            “I heard she was betrothed to a Prince.”

            “Can’t be. That mechling what belongs to Dash Over and Cool Down…Dirtgrinder, you work for them. What’s that little one’s name?”

            “Aubade,” Dirtgrinder said in the loftiest voice she could manage.

            “Right, Aubade. I thought Moonracer and him were still a thing.”

            “I thought so, too. But Scour told Pyrohydriscence, who told Steelstrike, who told Brush Off, who told Lift, who told me, that she caught Lady Moonracer in quite the compromising position with a Prince. Lords Finesse and Mirage would obviously want to save their skid plates by arranging a marriage.”

            “Aw, Scour is full of scrap. If you told her Half-Track was being hired as a public speaker, she would buy it. And she actually likes Caliburst holofilms.”

            “ _Noooo_. She exaggerates a little, flubs a few details, and makes up some others, but her information always comes from _somewhere_. If Scour says Lady Moonracer has been hanging around a Prince, she didn’t just invent that.” There was a pause. “She _does_ have horrible taste in actors, though.”

~----------~

            Hound’s search brought him no closer to finding Moonracer, but it did draw him a lot of attention. Optics full of distrust for a low mech—a servant, driving around like a mech on a mission—followed him everywhere he went. He could try to ignore it, but if any of them decided they needed to do more about his driving than looking, he was slagged. He didn’t like using his holograms often, especially with the drain they took on his systems and the quality of energon he could afford, but he felt it was a worthy sacrifice to keep his search for Moonracer going.

            With the privacy his holograms provided him, he scoured the city, only dropping his illusion when he needed to switch to a new one or refuel. Energy signals would drop out suddenly and reappear only when he drew further into the city. Hound wondered over the suggestion that Moonracer had been taken by a teleporting outlier, but it offered no answers on how to find them, only another layer of the challenge. Not that his search was working out by ignoring the possibility, either. Every corner she failed to turn up in was another few miles that Hound had to search.

            It was sometime in the night, when Hound had taken a fuel stop and was considering calling it quits until the morning, that Dirtgrinder found him. She took the seat closest to him and leaned in by his audial. “You won’t believe what I have to tell you, Hound.”

            “I’m not really one for gossip,” he said. Which was true; by that point, he had heard more than enough of it to be sick.

            “You’ll want to hear this hot dish,” said Dirtgrinder. “It’s important, and you’re going to need to be ready for what everyone else is saying before you hear it.”

            He considered that. Dirtgrinder may have been a bit nosey about others’ business, but she only spread it around if she thought it was need-to-know information, and she’d only give it out to those she thought needed to know. If she thought it was important for him, it probably was. “Okay, but keep it quick. I need to rest up and keep looking for Moonracer.”

            “Moonracer is exactly what this is about,” she said. “She’s been found, a few joors ago. But you need to know the details of her being found because that’s where the real talk is. Scour found her with a strange mech. Says he was from Vos.”

            Hound had to stop to try to make sense of that. “Strange mech” would seem to confirm the officer’s report that Moonracer had been taken, but from a mech from Vos? Even if the possibility of them being an outlier was true, then that was quite the journey. Sure, there were further corners of Cybertron to come to Uraya from than Vos, but the cities weren’t exactly neighbors, either. Hound would guess more at them being a shuttle with that information, but with the size of most shuttles, they would have had more trouble going unnoticed, hyper travel ability or not.

            Dirtgrinder evidently read his silence because she said, “I know, right? Some of them are saying he’s a prince. I think he has to be the Vosian Prince’s trinemate, because there’s no way the Prince himself would be able to pop over here without any fanfare.”

            Hound was having trouble imagining that the mech could be a prince’s trinemate, either. The officer’s assertion that Moonracer had been taken by a con artist seemed so certain. But she had turned back up in the company of a “strange mech,” very possibly the same one who had taken her in the first place and—from the sounds of things—in good condition. If she went with him willingly, he wasn’t sure what to think. He did know, however, that he didn’t like the sort of conclusions others might draw from the details they knew.

            “What else do you know?” he found himself asking Dirtgrinder.

~----------~

            “I overheard some of my servants gossiping like jolt-hens earlier, and you would not believe some of the wild ideas they get.” High Blue sipped his energon daintily before setting it down. He looked, for all of Cybertron, like the photovoltaic cat that had caught the glitch mouse.

            Grandeur kept her olfactory sensor high in the air, unimpressed with his smug expression. High Blue took far more interest in gossip than she ever did, and although she sometimes entertained this interest of his, she did not often listen without some resistance. She would give in eventually, as it was not wise to scorn a duke, but High Blue would happily take her initial resistance as a game. “I should hardly think you would bring it up if you did not see their chatter as significant,” she replied with ease.

            “Doubtless not,” he chuckled. “I should think it would be greatly significant to you as well, seeing as it concerns the ‘noble’ House of Illusia.”

            That made her crack a smile. It wasn’t often that High Blue got her to give in early, but there was one name she was always weak to. “You know your audience, Your Grace. Well, then, what could your little robo-chickens have to offer?”

            “The youngest of the House, Moonracer, went missing the other sol. One of Mirage’s maids found her a few joors later, sharing a solvent bath with a strange mech from abroad. Now, different iterations disagree whether the mech in question was a prince, a duke, or some filthy commoner, but what is certain is that he was not her betrothed.”

            “Color me unsurprised,” laughed Grandeur. “When her carrier can hardly keep himself from mingling with filth, how should we expect little Moonracer from doing any less?”

            High Blue just smiled and shook his helm. “Tell me one thing, if you would, Grandeur…Why do you dislike Mirage so?”

            Grandeur sobered immediately, her own grin softening into something melancholic. “No, I shan’t. You should think me petty if I told.”

            “Not at all. It would take something drastic indeed for me to lose my good opinion of you,” he assured her.

            She set down her own cube and repositioned herself in her seat. “Well, it began in our youth, when we were mere stellar cycles from our final upgrades. I was in love with Finesse and wished to court her, as Mirage was well aware.”

            “Correct me if I misunderstand, but you delight in seeing his reputation crumble because he took your intended as his conjunx?”

            “You misunderstand completely, though his farce of a pairing with her does fuel my ire. Had we entered a competition for her attentions, I might have been able to remain polite with him. However, it went beyond challenging me or Finesse choosing Mirage over me. How shall I begin?” She told the story haltingly, picking her words as she went.

~----------~

            _Courtships always began with a gift, and the first gift had always been a show of skill rather than wealth. Status and credits were already public knowledge; they said nothing to recommend a mech as a mate above others of comparable status. In more public courtings, the first gift and announcement of courtship were to be made at a large social gathering. Grandeur made her stand that vorn at the Festival of Solus, a lilleth egg nested in her delicate touch._

_The approach was as important as the gift. Her steps must follow a strict line: decisive enough that her intentions are clear but not so direct as to be rude; quick enough to catch her chance but not so hasty as to make her attentions vulgar or to risk the egg._

_She had also had to watch Finesse’s responses. Finesse seemed withdrawn, but such was expected for this stage of the courtship’s initiation. The courted was expected to remain coy until the gift had been presented. According to tradition, Finesse should express her interest less in open, lewd acceptance and more in the subtle flickering of her optics, and that was what Grandeur watched for._

_Seeing the signal to make her move, Grandeur made excuse to leave her conversation and move towards her intended. Mirage was beside Finesse, whispering with her, but Grandeur had yet to be suspicious of him. After all, Finesse and Mirage were known to be such good friends that, regardless of whom each chose as their conjuges, they were likely to announce their attachment as amica endurae._

_Grandeur cleared her vocalizer and said, “Mirage, how delightful to see you. I would love to catch up, but first, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like a moment with Finesse.”_

_“I would prefer him to remain near,” said Finesse, “if it would not trouble you too much. But he shall give us a touch more space.” And as she said it, Mirage did step away, though Grandeur did not note the stormy look on his faceplate at the time._

_“Very well. I should wish the three of us should become very close in the next several vorns as it is.” She cleared her vocalizer again, tamping down nerves and excitement. “Finesse, you are the finest mech I have had the pleasure of associating with. Your manner is beyond compare, and I believe we could find much happiness and prosperity in each other. I offer you this lilleth egg for your consideration.”_

_Finesse did not reply immediately, and when she did, it was with a slow deliberation. “To have brought back such a prize displays great determination and both deft processor and servos on your part. Anyone should be envious of such a gift. I regret only that I cannot accept it from you, Grandeur. Thank you.”_

_Grandeur was undeterred. It was not uncommon for the first offer to be rejected to deflect accusations of a mech being overeager for their match. One or two rejections was simply a part of the ritual; the third would be the time of her acceptance. “Why should you not accept it,” she said, keeping her tone light and playful. “One with grace like yours could balance this egg on a single digit and not break it. I could trust it with few others.”_

_“You flatter me, Grandeur. My stabilizers are not so steady as that. And if there are few others you could trust, there are still others. Why should you not gift it to them?”_

_There was her second refusal. The third time, however, would contain her agreement. After all, she would not have signaled her interest if she was going to refuse._

_But before she could continue with her third entreaty, Mirage interrupted, “Has it never occurred to you that your intentions could be unwanted, or is your pride simply as fragile as that egg you’re toting? I should think a refusal would be clear to your audials, even with your conceit muddying the air.”_

_Several festival goers turned their attention on them at that. Finesse turned her optics to the ground and blushed blue. Grandeur was certain her own cheekplates were quite heated. She felt her dentae clacking together and her optic ridges turning down into a glare._

_The damage was done. Mirage’s words were the ones that were heard, making Grandeur seem like a presumptuous mech without any sense of boundaries. Any attempt to defend herself or explain the situation would have fallen on deaf audial receptors. He embarrassed her in front of a gathering of their peers._

~----------~

            “I see it only fit that I treat him as he treated me. The difference between us is that I only tell the truth about what a rotten mech he is.” Grandeur laughed, but it sounded more bitter than before. “Besides, of all the mechs he could betray his conjunx for, he chooses that filthy servant-class one from his garden? How much more could he degrade himself?”

            “Much more. He could have chosen a warrior or a miner.” They both laughed, full and loud, at that. “How could I have thought you petty for that? A mech who attacks another’s reputation when theirs is hardly spotless is nothing but molten slag.”

            “If only Finesse could see the same.” They toasted their energon cubes and drank.

~----------~

            It started with averted gazes and quieter, cooler hellos. Then Mirage started to notice how the whispers dropped out the moment he approached. Invitations for races and hunts were extended less freely. A few mechs even upturned their nasal ridges at him. Even the lesser mechs were giving him strange looks, and business-as-usual was more difficult to conduct as usual.

            He could but only begin to fathom what the problem was until he called in on Dash Over and Cool Down. Even their servant dared to regard him with contempt at the door. Though his friends attempted to welcome him kindly, there was discomfort behind their smiles.

            “Sit down, old friend,” greeted Dash Over, vocalizer strained. “We trust you have been doing well.”

            “Very well.” Moonracer had, of course, been scolded for giving him a spark attack. But since their reunion, there had been little worth complaining about. “I would trust that you both have been even better, but you seem a little unwell.”

            “We have received a bit of unsettling news, I fear,” said he.

            “Have you?” Mirage’s curiosity was pushed to full gear. The whole city, it seemed to him, had been acting strangely that entire solar cycle. If it was something that affected his friends, especially those set to become family one vorn, it was of utmost importance that he knew. “I hope you haven’t taken extremely ill.”

            “No, nothing of the sort,” Dash Over said quickly. “It is more of a social issue. What I mean is—That is to say—”

            “What my conjunx is attempting to say,” interrupted Cool Down, “is that there has been some question of the legitimacy of our arrangement. We have been given reason to doubt that you or Moonracer are taking her engagement to Aubade seriously.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “We have heard tell that Moonracer has been running about with another mech of questionable status behind our dorsal plating. That alone is hardly encouraging for any judge of character, but especially not for a match as Aubade’s with her is meant to be.”

            “How did you come to believe this?”

            “The whispers of servants.”

            “Servants whisper many things, but I wouldn’t take all of them to be true.”

            “True,” Cool Down granted, but his expression was still severe. “And were it just this one whisper of misgivings, I would dismiss it, especially considering her age. However, in light of some of the whispers of your own character—”

            “Mine?” Mirage sat stiffly in his chair, affronted.

            “The…disturbing tales of Moonracer’s sparking and the question of her Sire.”

            “We had been disinclined to believe them at first, of course,” Dash Over interjected. “It is such a heavy crime to accuse someone of. But naturally, if they were true…”

            “A mech sparked of two castes has no caste at all,” Cool Down finished. “To join such a mech with our creation as conjuges endurae would be an atrocity.”

            Mirage tried to force his voice to remain steady, though he could feel his frame quaking with rage and fear in equal parts. “You mean to suggest that I had her by imprudent means. A rumor, I may remind you, supported by Grandeur. Surely, you could see that she has ulterior motives to suggest such a thing about me and my sparkling.”

            “We know that,” said Dash Over. “But surely _you_ cannot blame us for being cautious when it comes to our one and only creation.”

            “I cannot. Only allow me to host you both and your youngling for this evening, and allow Moonracer to explain for herself how these vicious lies started. I am certain you will find her answer satisfactory.”

            Mirage left their meeting some time later, barely fighting back the quaking of his plating. He felt completely cold. It was easy to keep his household together when he only had to deal with Grandeur’s attacks. If all of his friends turned on him, there would be no end to the torment. And he could not help thinking about the nature of Moonracer’s disappearance and the missing details about it, as well as the now more important mystery of her reappearance. She was seen with a mech who did not hold her hostage, and even reminding himself of her youth didn’t completely quell his fear of the possible implications.

~----------~

            If Moonracer stayed still during the gathering that evening, it was only because the atmosphere was so thick that it held her in place. She could feel that the attention was on her, though she couldn’t understand why. Even Aubade was almost staring, and showing more emotion than she’d seen from him without music being a factor.

            After everyone had fueled, Cool Down broke the Silence Spell Moonracer was beginning to suspect had been cast over the room. “Moonracer, I believe you have some answers for us.”

            She didn’t realize things could get worse until she heard those words. Those words always meant she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t imagine what she’d done. She’d already been yelled at for sneaking out. “Pardon?”

            “You were seen with another mech when you disappeared,” said Mirage. “We just want to know who they were.”

            Well, the truth was out. She couldn’t tell them she was with a warbuild; they would be mad and not let her hang out with Skywarp again. “I went to the market. I should have brought a chaperone with me, but I was excited because I wanted to bring a cyberflute back for Aubade. There was a Vosian noble visiting in secret, but he needed a guide. I brought him back here so he could fuel up before he headed back to Vos.”

            She wasn’t sure if the grown mechs were going to say anything, but Aubade thankfully didn’t let the sound drop out again. “You were going to buy me a cyberflute.?” His cheekplates were faintly blue and his optics shined a little brighter.

            Somehow, despite the fact that she’d been lying, the genuine delight in his response pleased her and made her blush blue, too. “I thought a cyberflute would be easier to carry around than other instruments.” That seemed to satisfy the grown mechs, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

~----------~

            Mirage and Finesse escorted Moonracer to her berth that night cycle instead of handing her off to her nurse. He couldn’t speak for Finesse, but Mirage knew he wanted the assurance of knowing his youngling was there and not disappearing again. Her vanishing acts had taken a great toll on his spark, even without the other nobles whispering about them.

            Moonracer beamed at them whenever they caught her optic. “Are you going to read me a story before recharge?”

            “I believe you’re growing a little old for stories,” said Mirage, though he already knew he wouldn’t resist if she insisted. “Your first armor upgrade is only a few orbital cycles away.”

            “‘Stories are the very foundation of society,’” she quoted her tutor, taking on a proud posture. “Stories teach lessons and speak about life. I will never be too old for stories; I just get old enough for new ones.”

            He chuckled, and he even heard Finesse huff out a short laugh. “Fair enough, light of my spark. I could hardly deny you the ‘foundation of society’.”

            Once the youngling was nestled in her thick-padded berth, Mirage began his tale. Instead of growing tired and shutting down her systems as he suspected she would, however, she seemed to only grow more focused and intense the more he described the princess and her faithful servant overcoming the evil warbuilds. It was a side of his sparkling Mirage had never seen before, and it took him by surprise.

            What was more shocking was what she told him when he finished. Moonracer had very little to comment on with the story. In fact, she hardly spoke to him about it at all. Afterwards, though, she grabbed his servo and conspiratorially whispered, “The Vosian I met? He was a Seeker outlier. Another _outlier_ , Carrier. Isn’t that amazing? He could _teleport_.”

            Mirage felt a chill crawl up his spinal strut. Hadn’t the Enforcer he spoke to suggested that an infamous con artist was a teleporting outlier? Hadn’t he suggested that this criminal had taken his child? A Vosian in Uraya would be hard to mistake for anyone else. Even if the rumors of this mech’s misconduct were wrong, the idea of a ground-based mech like Moonracer befriending a teleporting Seeker was invoking a particularly unpleasant falsehood truth, a Seeker accidentally leading his ground-bound friend to doom.

            Moonracer probably just thought that an outlier could appreciate knowing another outlier, given how rare they are, but the thoughts her words were inspiring in him made him feel faint in the worst way.

            “Carrier?” she touched his servo, and Mirage startled out of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

            “Perfectly fine.” He kissed her forehelm and rose from the berthside. He turned around and started for the door, only to be stopped by her voice again.

            “Can I talk to Sire?”

            “Of course, dearspark.” When Mirage reached the door, he announced Moonracer’s request to Finesse.

            She raised her optic ridges. In all the stellar cycles they had been raising her, Moonracer had never requested Finesse’s presence. But now that the odd request had been made, Finesse nodded and passed quickly to the youngling’s berthside. “Yes, dearspark?”

            Moonracer didn’t ask her question immediately. She struggled with her words, and when she spoke, her sentences were choppy. “What you told me, before, about learning to love Aubade...In my own way, you said. What did you mean? Will I just learn to fall in love with him?”

            The question surprised Finesse a little, but when she thought about it, she wished she had asked the same questions when she was younger. She wished someone had given her the same answers she had to learn from experience. “Loving your partner is ideal, but not everyone can live up to Dash Over’s and Cool Down’s example,” she said. “And there are many ways to love a mech without being _in_ love with them.”

            “Do you love Carrier?”

            “…Yes, but as friends, and as deeply as friends can.”

            “But you’re conjuges endurae instead of amica endurae.”

            “Nobles are expected to join with another and have heirs. Amica endurae don’t raise newsparks together, regardless of how the newspark is formed,” Finesse explained. “If we were amica, we could not bring a bright spark like you into Cybertron.” She watched the contemplative look overtake Moonracer’s faceplate. “Do you love your Vosian friend like in the falsehood truths?”

            “No.” Admitting it only seemed to trouble the youngling more. The longer their conversation went on, the deeper the furrows in her faceplate became.

            “Moonracer…” Finesse covered the youngling’s servos with her own. “All is well if you never feel that way. All is well if you only feel that way vorns from now. All is well if you don’t feel it until your limbs are rusting off of their hinges and your memory core keeps wiping itself clean. There is nothing wrong with you, understood?”

            Moonracer nodded and pulled Finesse into a hug. “You’re the best Sire a mech could ask for,” she whispered.

            Finesse could feel coolant tears on her plating, though she could not tell you whose they were.

            With Moonracer settled into recharge, Mirage and Finesse could make their way to their own room. Mirage could sense a change in his conjunx, though there was little sign of it in her expression or E.M.-field. “What troubles you?”

            She glanced out of the sides of her optics before answering. “Moonracer is our creation. She is _my_ creation.”

            Mirage understood what she meant from the way she said it. They were both well aware that she didn’t contribute to the formation of Moonracer’s spark. Finesse, so much as he knew, had never spark-merged with anyone and never would have regardless of the situation they found themselves in. But, in agreeing to join him as conjuges, she was taking responsibility for his creation as well.

            Seeing that he understood, Finesse continued, “I feel as though I haven’t, until now, really behaved as though she is, and perhaps that is encouraging all of the awful words being spread around. I would like to fix that.

            “As you said, her first armor upgrade is mere orbital cycles away. Aubade’s will be sooner. I should like to invite Cool Down and Aubade to accompany me and Moonracer to the smiths’ to be fitted for complementary plating.” She smiled. “We need the time together…And Moonracer is like me; she will never be happy with our arrangement unless she can grow as close to Aubade as I am to you.”

            This, too, Mirage understood. His sparked ached at the prospect of pushing his own creation into a loveless pairing, but like his own, it was a match made of safety and necessity. He wished that she could at least find the companionship that he and Finesse found in one another.

~----------~

            Hound was surprised to see Finesse stepping slowly down the slope of the gardens that morning. She had never seemed eager to enter them, preferring drives for her outdoor activity over crystal-observing. There was only one reason he could think of for her approach. “Moonracer isn’t here, ma’am,” he said. “She hasn’t gone missing again, has she?”

            “No, she is all right. She is in having her lesson right now. I came to speak with you.”

            Naturally, he assumed she would be making some request for some minerals to be handed off to Culinary for the evening’s energon. He didn’t speak until there was a reason for him to.

            “How long have you been in love with my conjunx?”

            “…My lord?”

            “Perhaps ‘in love’ is too strong. It presumes a closeness and knowledge that I doubt you have had in many vorns. Infatuation, on the other servo, seems an understatement.” Her smile was small, as were most of her expressions, but it still managed to project a pleasant aura.

            “Um. Well…” He tried not to make any gesture of nervousness. It was difficult with her optics set on him so firmly. “If I had to pin down when I started feeling something for him, it was during the Festival of Solus about a vorn ago. You and him were nearing your final upgrades; mine had been sped along because of my mentor’s deactivation happening sooner than expected. You were there; I hope you’ll forgive me for anything I get wrong or for the assumptions I made.”

~----------~

            _“Are you well, Finesse?” asked Mirage. “You’re shaking more than a metalloleaf in a rust storm.”_

_Hound happened to be near at the time. The Festival of Solus was meant to be a day off for the servants, but he had to assist some of the last klik adjustments to the venue for the nobles’ celebration. He had no plans to celebrate on his own or with friends afterwards, instead resting in his mourning greys._

_“I should have thought news had reached you by now,” Finesse said, “so pardon me for being direct. For the last deca-cycle, mechs have had little to say but that Grandeur has gone and retrieved some grand prize. She has never been subtle about her intentions, either, so I should not be surprised if she approaches me this afternoon with a proposal of courtship.”_

_“There are worse matches you could find than Grandeur. Her finances are stable, her house reputable…Her temperament provides a balance to yours not wholly unlike Dash Over’s to Cool Down’s.” As if on cue, the named couple laughed from their place a few mechanometers away at some private joke. “What, then, is the problem?”_

_“I fear that Grandeur may genuinely be in love with me.” She wrestled with her words for a moment before continuing, “I don’t believe that I could ever love her back the same way. I hardly believe I could love anyone that way. The platonic love I hold for you may be all I may ever offer a mech. I never want to pair myself with a mech who would offer me an emotion I cannot return.”_

_Mirage embraced her quickly and released her almost as quickly. “Your reluctance to join with a mech is understandable. My only wish is that you would not speak of our friendship as though it was at all less than any other form of affection.”_

_“No, excuse me. I did make it sound as though it were.” Finesse cleared her vocalizer. “I meant only to express the predicament I am in. I don’t believe that Grandeur is as fond of subtlety as I am.”_

_“Then allow me to stand by you. Should she become too insistent in her pursuit, I will step in so that you might retain your manners.”_

_“Thank you.” Finesse caught Grandeur looking at her, and her optics flickered with fear._

~----------~

            “The way he looked out for you is what set it up. I think what really set it _off_ was when, after he told Grandeur off, he noticed me still standing there, and he gave his condolences for my mentor’s passing and told me to go recover.”

            Finesse’s smile widened, if only minutely. “Yes, he always has a way of looking out for those around him.” Her expression shifted to something more serious then. “But now it’s my turn to look out for him and our creation. Doubtless, you have heard the whispers.”

            “…I try not to listen.”

            “But turning off our audials does not prevent others’ vocalizers from running. It only makes us deaf to the poisons they speak. I’m sure that you agree with me—seeing how you care for Mirage and his youngling—that the best course of action is to keep the poison from leaking to begin with.”

            “I’m…not sure I take your meaning,” said Hound. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

            Finesse cycled air through her vents and took on an expression of remorse. “Hound, I’m letting you go. Effective immediately, you will leave the service of this garden and seek employment elsewhere. Thank you for your stellar cycles of service, and...I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the tags say " _Eventual_ Romance," don't they? You loyal readers are going to be in for a long ride.


	7. Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (not-so) brief history lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, if I'm remembering correctly, "Combatron" and "Destron" have both been used as Japanese names for the Decepticons, while "Cybertron" was used to mean the Autobots. Of course, I had to play around with that.
> 
>  **Edit 1/29/16:** Revised. Most of the work on this chapter was flipping one of the perspectives around. I thought about flipping around another one, but I didn't. Maybe, in a future edit, I'll change my mind again and flip that scene around, too. Oh, and if anyone is wondering about why the first six chapters got fixed up in rapid succession but this one took a few days...life happened. *shrug*

            Hound should have seen it coming. In light of the rumors that had been circulating for stellar cycles, he should have known there was no such thing as job security. Actually, his surprise should have come from the fact that he wasn’t dropped sooner.

            Regardless, he didn’t dare argue the point. Finesse was right: his presence in their employ only put them all into more danger. He couldn’t stop to say goodbye to Moonracer either, if only for the fear that he would never leave if he tried.

            The question was where he could go. Finesse had offered him a recommendation of character to ease the search for new employment, but it wasn’t as though new positions opened themselves all the time. New mechs were commissioned if there was a job to be done. Few would take a Servile mech who had been cast out from a noble family’s employ, much less one with the kinds of rumors he had surrounding him.

            With little else to do, Hound made his way to his regular oilhouse with hopes that Beachcomber was there. However, the state he found his friend in turned out to be worse than he was expecting. Beachcomber was hunched over the table in their regular booth, paint completely grey. Were it not for the dim glow of his optics, Hound might have thought he had overcharged to spark extinguishing. The truth wasn’t much better: a mech’s electronic paint only turned gray outside of deactivation if someone they were close to deactivated.

            “Would you like company, or would you prefer to mourn alone?” Hound asked.

            “Hound, mech, there’s always room for you,” replied Beachcomber. He tried to sound his normal, peaceful self, but there was a distinct, melancholy crackle in his voice.

            “Was it anyone I knew?” The chances were slim, but not impossible. Beachcomber was his main contact outside of the Servile caste, but he had brought other Intellectuals with him a time or two.

            “A botanist. Brushguard. You wouldn’t have known him. Mostly kept to himself and his plants. There was an accident at the lab. One of his vines got out of control…” Beachcomber trailed off and took a swig of his energon. “They tried to cut him out, but it was too late.”

            The death of a coworker would’ve been hard on Beachcomber enough, but Hound knew how much he valued _all_ life. It would be hard enough to have to choose killing the plant to save a friend, but to kill the plant only for the rescue to fail had to be even harder. Had Beachcomber not wanted company, he would still need it. Hound had to look out for his friend.

            While he signaled a server over, Hound said, “Tell me about him and his studies.”

            Beachcomber sighed gratitude through his vents, relieved to have something less morbid to focus his attention on. “He was trying to find a way to tame morphobots for use as guards along the borders of gardens…”

~----------~

            Moonracer knew she wasn’t the best student, but she hadn’t had a reason to pay attention before. Her tutor was a pleasant enough mech: proper, formal, but not uptight. That didn’t make his subject matter all that interesting, and she never understood the use for any of it. After the optic-opening experience she’d had with Skywarp, she began to wonder how much she had missed when she wasn’t paying attention, what other horrors she was oblivious to.

            That alone would have had her more alert that sol, but there was something off about her tutor’s demeanor as well. She couldn’t quite place what it was, as he seemed just as sure and kind as ever. Maybe it was a rigidity to his pauldrons that was out of the norm. In any case, he had her attention for once.

            “In the beginning,” her tutor said, “there were two groups of cybernetic life on this planet: warlike Combatrons, created by Unicron, and peaceful Cybertrons, created by Primus. The two races lived in harmony for a time. The Combatrons’ greater physical prowess made them ideal construction workers and city guards. The Cybertrons, meanwhile, we more suited to design and administrative duties. They could split the work between them and create a perfectly functioning society together.

            “But, over time, the Combatrons began to wonder why they should live as equals with the Cybertrons at all. They valued strength over all else, and they knew that they were far stronger than the Cybertrons. In their processors, their greater strength should have given them the exclusive right to rule. In the night cycle, they schemed. Then, one sol, they made their attack.

            “The Cybertrons were taken by surprise, and many of them were slaughtered in the first few solar-cycles. Those that survived barricaded themselves in their homes or hid underground until the Combatron rampage calmed. When they came out of hiding, however, they found the outside world completely devastated, and the Combatrons enslaved them to rebuild everything.”

            A growing discomfort pressed against her, and she knew it wasn’t because of the violence. She had a swelling suspicion she knew where this lecture was going, and she didn’t like it. Moonracer had so many doubts and questions, but her tutor kept running on with his lecture, leaving her to try to contain all of the words clambering inside her vocalizer.

            Her tutor continued, “For vorns, the Cybertrons labored and toiled, unable to defend themselves from the brutality the Combatrons unleashed on them if they did not work. They suffered, but they were not broken. After working, they spent their limited reprieves between work shifts learning and improving themselves. Then, at long last, counter attack arose. The Cybertrons fought back against the Combatrons and retook the planet. The Combatrons were put in their place, and the planet was renamed Cybertron after the heroes.

            “This was not the last war Cybertron saw, however. For vorns and vorns, stretching out all across Cybertronian history, there have been cycles of war and oppression, war and restoring peace. It is the most recent of these wars that began the caste system that maintains society as we know it.

            “Because the Combatrons have proven themselves countless times in our history to be little more than drooling, mindless ruffians, three castes were created to suit their programming. For those that showed enough judgement that they could plan and create safe dwellings, the Constructive caste was created. Beneath them, for those that were too dangerous to be trusted but showed just enough cognitive function to strategize, they were classed as Combative. Then, for the wildest and dumbest, they were given over to the energon mines so that their strength and physicality might be put to use.”

            Her tutor finally took notice of the doubt she felt gnawing at her. He set down the datapad he had been teaching from and asked, “Do you have any questions for me, Lady Moonracer?”

            Even if she wanted to stop herself, she couldn’t. The questions came pouring out in one long stream. “Why is Unicron called the ‘Unmaker’ if he _made_ the Combatrons? Are Seekers Combatrons or Cybertrons? How can there be Seekers in both the Combative and Ruling castes if all Combatrons are mindless and battle is distasteful to Cybertrons? What was the planet called in the past if it wasn’t always Cybertron?” She could have gone on, asking how they even knew Combatrons were mindless in the first place, because that was the biggest lie she had ever been sold, but she felt frozen by her tutor’s expression.

            He raised his optic ridges. She didn’t know how to read that. Was he offended? Was he merely surprised? “Well,” he began slowly, “the existence of Unicron and Primus are debatable to begin with. They are important religious figures for some and an apt metaphor for the very different natures of Combatrons and Cybertrons. Cybertrons create; Combatrons destroy.”

            “Then why are Constructives a Combatron rank?” she asked.

            “Combatrons have a physical strength that most Cybertrons lack,” he explained, “that makes them more suitable for moving support beams and walls. Back to your previous questions, Seekers have always been a bit of an enigma for Cybertronian society. Some say they were created by Unicron, but stories say that Primus favored them. Others claim that Primus created them, but that Unicron corrupted some of them. In reality, it is merely a strange matter that non-Vosians are not privy to. As for the previous name or names for Cybertron as a planet, they have been lost to time.”

            She still wasn’t convinced, but all the questions she actually managed to ask were answered. Her tutor rerailed the tracks of his lecture and said, “Now, because Cybertrons are more suited to a wider variety of duties, there are five castes to contain them. In ascending order, they are Servile, Creative, Intellectual, Noble, and Ruling, with the sole Prime at the very top.

            “The division between Noble and Ruling is a mere formality: nobles may make decisions over a business or smaller area whereas the ruling caste makes decisions for polities or the planet as a whole. Nobles and rulers may bond and join as conjuges freely, and there is a fluidity of rank between the two castes. Even an Elite Guardsmech may rise to the stature of King. Yes, Lady Moonracer?”

            Moonracer had raised her servo before she could even stop to rethink asking, “But don’t the Elite Guard have to fight? Why aren’t they considered Combative?”

            Her tutor flinched at the suggestion. “Because the Combative caste is purely for pointing in the direction of an enemy and unleashing,” he spluttered quickly, losing a touch of his normal eloquence. “Allowing such reckless and uncivilized mechs to guard Cybertron’s greatest is asking to doom the planet. The Elite Guard may only be drawn from the most refined, level-helmed, well-trained mechs available.”

            “Then why aren’t Elite Guardsmechs drawn from the scientists and philosophers?”

            “Because scientists and philosophers, by and large, are ill-suited for battle. The Elite Guard is its own brand of programming that allows them to balance fighting for the protection of others and reasoning—like determining which situations and mechs are threats and which are not. I can think of only one instance where a scientist was allowed to enter the Elite Guard, and she is the exception.”

            Moonracer squinted. There was a certain flicker in his optics that caught her attention again. His fingers kept twitching, too. They weren’t big movements, but they were noticeable to her, little hints of a deeper discomfort he wouldn’t voice. That bothered her. As a teacher, he was supposed to explain everything about the world to her, and he was leaving out vital pieces.

            He refused to be stared down. He clenched his fists, glanced over at his datapad. “In general, however, mechs remain in the caste they were sparked for. Mechs are placed, at creation, in the function their programming suits. In the Servile caste, this means merchants, skilled workers, nobles’ servants, low-rank enforcers, and City Guardians. In the Creative caste, this means painters, writers, actors, holofilm makers, customizers, and their ilk. The Intellectual caste, meanwhile, includes scientists, philosophers, medics, and high-ranked enforcers.”

            But she refused to give up, too. “Why is there such a large gap between the ranks of Enforcers?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they all be part of one caste with leadership determined by seniority? Or maybe just one caste away from each other, instead of two?”

            “There’s nothing creative about a low-rank Enforcer,” her tutor said. “An Enforcer’s _duty_ is to be uncreative unless they have the authority to presume to know what a criminal is thinking. They don’t belong in the Creative caste.”

            “A high-ranked Enforcer does have the authority,” she replied. “So doesn’t that make them creative?”

            “In a sense, but a high-ranked Enforcer still doesn’t _create_. They _reason_ , hence their placement in the Intellectual caste.”

            Moonracer frowned. Every new answer came with another set of holes. There was a moment when it dawned on her that these inconsistencies didn’t reflect just on the lesson, but on the entire trajectory of her function. If she was seeing lies where there weren’t any, what did that mean for her bud of a friendship with Skywarp? If she was being lied to, how many lies had her life been built on?

            All she felt she had the power to do about this uncertainty was to keep unraveling. “But a low-ranked Enforcer and a high-ranked Enforcer are both still Enforcers. Shouldn’t they have the same programming?”

            “No, though they will have similar programming. A high-ranked Enforcer’s successor will be obvious from a batch of commissioned low-ranked Enforcers because they will rise above the performance of their peers. However, their time serving in the lower caste and on the streets teaches them valuable lessons for their later function in the higher caste.”

            “I still don’t understand. There are castes, and they’re unshakeable, except that they’re not. Mechs don’t jump caste, unless they’re nobles, Enforcers, or some lucky scientist. Shouldn’t that be impossible if everyone is placed where they’re programed for? And where does that put someone like you?”

            “What ever could you mean?”

            “You’re a scientist. An Intellectual. But you transport in to teach me, _under the service of nobles_. Doesn’t that go against your caste placement?”

            “Tutoring you is an activity I take on the side of my work. I am not under your creator’s employ full-time. They attain my services through their wealth and reputation, as well as my own delight in spreading intelligence. I am certain it was not your intention to undermine my work, Lady Moonracer, but please be more mindful in the future.”

            “I just want to understand,” Moonracer insisted. There was a mounting panic in the room, and she could feel that it wasn’t all hers. It got under her plating and made her wires feel tight. “If everything is so set by function, if everything is perfect and simple, why are there exceptions? Why does everyone get so freaked out over a little friendship?”

            In a terrifying flash, her tutor grabbed her pauldrons and locked optics with her. “Don’t question this. Don’t question any of it. Don’t question the High Council or Zeta Prime. If you value any of us, just accept history as it is given to you.” Then, his faceplate gradually took on a jolt of awareness. He released her just as quickly as he’d grabbed her and took several steps back. “My apologies, Lady Moonracer. I don’t know what came over me.”

            She was shaken, but knew that he hadn’t meant to frighten him. “It’s okay, Perceptor. I’m sorry I pushed too far.”

            “Not at all, Lady Moonracer.” Perceptor tried to regulate the flow of his vents. “I believe we shall stop there for the sol. We shall pick up with more recent history next lesson and begin on Astronomy if we have time.”

            Moonracer left the room feeling disoriented and still a little freaked out. She had so many questions and uncertainties stirring in her processor, and she was terrified with the terror she saw in Perceptor. After such a distressing and bizarre lesson, she was eager for a bit of normalcy and comfort. She hurried down to the gardens, hoping she might have time to doodle in the shade of her favorite hiding spot while her thoughts sorted themselves out.

            When she reached the garden, she was surprised to find Hound gone and her Sire standing in the middle of the vanadinite patch. “Sire? Sire, patches are for minerals to grow, not mechs,” she laughed, trying not to make her nervousness obvious.

            Finesse turned to face her slowly. Moonracer could tell, just by looking at her, that something was seriously wrong. Her Sire looked…sad. “Sad” wasn’t quite the right word, but she didn’t think she knew the right one. “Sad” was just as close as she could get.

            “Is…is everything okay?” No answer. “Sire, where’s Hound?”

            “Gone,” Finesse finally said.

            “Gone?”

            “Left. He’s going to restart his function elsewhere.”

            “…Is he going to come back? Will I ever see him again?” Moonracer didn’t need to hear anything to know the answer. She could see it in the way her Sire’s pauldrons sank. Before she knew it, she was sniffling and her sight war blurring.

            Finesse leapt over the minerals between them and took Moonracer in her arms. “Sh, shhh, dearspark. It’s okay. He left because he had to. He didn’t want to abandon you; he just needed to be elsewhere.”

            “But he was my friend,” sobbed Moonracer. “I still needed him. Why couldn’t he have just brought whatever he needed to do _here?_ ”

            “Sh, shhh. Sh shhh. You know life isn’t always that easy. That’s…Okay, let it all out. It’s okay. I’m here.”

            Even when she stopped crying, Moonracer didn’t feel well enough to do much of anything. Drawing was less fun without Hound giving her the carbon stick for it. Her datapads bored her. The games she once cherished lost their appeal. If she could play with anything, it was the energon cubes she couldn’t bring herself to consume. She knew she was making her creators worry, but she couldn’t bring herself out of her dark mood.

            The rare times she could turn her processor to other things, she ended up fixating on Perceptor’s odd behavior during their lesson and the unanswered questions she still had. When she tried to power down for recharge, the memories flooded her processor. She found herself staring at the ceiling, repeating the frequency for a private comm.-line in her helm until, at long last, she gave in and sent a message. :: _Is it a good time for another session?_ ::

~----------~

            “Where have you _been?_ ”

            “Aw, shucks, TC. I would have thought you would learn not to ask by now,” replied Skywarp, giving his friend his best shit-eating grin.

            “Tch. I’ve also learned not to expect you to come back in as great shape as you did this time,” said Thundercracker. “What did you do, break into a car wash?” The two of them started back for their barracks, hoping to be settled and pretending to recharge by the time the night guard came around to check their side of the Vosian War Academy.

            “You’re a riot. Actually…” Skywarp slung an arm around Thundercracker’s pauldrons and whispered, “I met the craziest noble mech tonight. I took her to a poker game, and she gave me a bath and fuel. Isn’t that fantastic?”

            “If by ‘fantastic’ you mean ‘a complete fantasy,’ then yes. That’s fantastic.”

            “Oh, come _on_ , TC. You know I meet some characters. She said she wanted to fight alongside us to make everything better and scrap.”

            Thundercracker flattened himself against the nearest wall as a search light just barely missed them. Then, he arched an optic ridge at his friend. “A noble said she wanted to fight? I take everything back. I believe you, Skywarp. You did meet the _craziest_ noble. That explains why she could even stand you.”

            “Awww, you’re just saying that because you’re crazy enough to stand me, too.” Skywarp sobered as they neared their quarters. “Seriously, though, TC. I think I might have secured us a new ally completely on accident. She’s rich and privileged, but she’s cool.”

            “I think you just liked her because she used the word ‘fight.’”

            “You haven’t even met her.”

            “You’ve only just met her.” Thundercracker shook his arm off and met Skywarp’s glare with unwavering optics. “Maybe I’m right; maybe I’m wrong. This glorious revolution you see on the horizon has always been more your thing than mine anyway, ‘Warp. In any case, we can’t talk about it now.”

            “Can we ever?”

            “…Just go recharge before you get us both in trouble.”

            Skywarp cycled awake the next morning to find Powerglide eyeing him and his fresh finish. Skywarp stretched as much as the tiny military-grade berths would allow and deadpanned, “Like what you see?”

            “You’re better when you’re in recharge,” Powerglide shot back. “You can’t go flapping that annoying intake of yours.”

            “Mm, that’s not how I heard you like it, PG. I heard—” Whatever Skywarp was about to say was interrupted by the blast of the bugle, signaling everyone to get up, get ready, and get in a line outside for drills.

            That’s how most of the mega-cycle went. He would wake up, do drills, go to target practice, learn a few new ways to kill a mech, get his crappy ration, sneak out, run a few errands, play for the credits for more energon, sneak back in, snark at TC, recharge, and wake up.

            He knew that Moonracer would comm. eventually; he just didn’t know when. Forget what TC said. Skywarp knew what he’d seen in her and in her reactions. She would want a deeper look at some point or another, and he didn’t mind going along with the routine until she decided to break it.

            As it would happen, she had the funniest timing.

            Skywarp went to visit Swindle that night. He didn’t have anything he needed from the mech, but there was a little information he could pick him for. Besides, Swindle was good company, even when he was trying to fleece you.

            “Any sign of Drift?” asked Skywarp. He leaned on the counter of the merchant’s stall, laughing at the way his friend immediately pulled the register closer to himself.

            “You know, it’s the darnedest thing,” said Swindle. “He was getting worse and worse and more dependent on those  circuit boosters, and then he just shows up one day— _ping!_ —good as new. Wouldn’t have even known it was the same mech if he hadn’t known who I was.”

            “He just…showed up better?”

            “As though he’d never been a dirty addict to begin with. Said some scrap about a saint saving him. I think he was still slightly out of it, but in a different way than usual.”

            “Circuit _speeders_ , maybe?”

            “For all I know.” Swindle tapped his fingers on the counter. “So, speaking of new mechs, tell me about that delightful friend you brought with you last mega-cycle. I never knew you ran with such high class society. Tell me, is she a princess?”

            Skywarp’s wing-nubs swung towards the sky. “No, and if you called her one, she’d probably try to tackle you.”

            “A bit physical, then, is she?” Swindle watched his friend’s reactions carefully. “Is she an Elite Guardsmech? …An old-credits noble?”

            “ _No_.”

            “Old-credits noble it is,” he chuckled. “Always a pleasure doing business with them. Let’s see…You called her ‘Moonie.’ What is ‘Moonie’ short for?…Moonbeam. Moondancer. Well, we can say ‘Moonwing’ is obviously right out.”

            “I don’t want you selling her things. She could be a valuable resource for the cause.”

            “And she could be a valuable resource for _my_ cause,” countered Swindle. “But I’ll bite. What makes you think she would pour her credits into your chosen leader?”

            “She told me she wanted to fight with us to make Cybertronian society better.”

            “Ah. She used the magic word, ‘fight.’”

            “I think she—” He was interrupted by her comm.-signal coming in. After a brief conversation, he closed the line and said, “I’m taking her to see _him_.”

            Swindle raised his optic ridges but never stopped smiling. “So soon?”

            “She asked for a history lesson. Who better to give it than the warrior scholar?”

            If smug weren’t already his natural state, Swindle would look even more smug at that point. “You can’t wreck her finish before visiting him, not without undermining his authority. Social code: these nobles are big on it. You can’t lead a noble around without covering her up, either, unless you’re just begging for one or both of you to get killed. I think I have something in mind,” he said, glancing towards the back of his stall.

~----------~

            Moonracer hurried down unfamiliar streets, a dark cloak flapping around her as she ran behind Skywarp. She didn’t know where they were headed, but she knew it was supposed to be the only thing that could quiet her processor.

            If the city Skywarp took her to the mega-cycle before reeked, she didn’t know how to describe the smell of this one. It was like spilt, spoiled energon. Less than a klik with the rancid air cycling through her vents made her dizzy, and she only kept going through sheer force of needing to _know_.

            It was faster getting to this destination. It felt eons slower. And then, Skywarp made her wait by the door while he went in to talk to…whoever it was who was supposed to give her answers. She waited so long for him to come back for her that she thought the whole night-cycle had passed her by. Then, at long last, he motioned her into a long, dark corridor.

            If that city was where light was eaten, the outside was where it was chewed and the inside of that corridor was where it was swallowed. The only sight she had to guide her were the pricks of red made by Skywarp’s optics. She followed almost literally blindly, until she saw a soft, purple glow at the very end of their path.

            The corridor opened up to a small room with little decoration but a light fixture and a large chair. In that large chair sat the large, imposing figure of a mech who, if Moonracer had to guess, had to be a miner.

            Her spark nearly dropped. Even though meeting Skywarp had challenged her perceptions, she couldn’t quite shake off an instinctive fear of the big mech. It was deeply ingrained in her processor not to trust big, brutish miners.

            Skywarp lowered himself onto one knee beside her. Moonracer was startled by this show of reverence, but she didn’t have time to doubt his actions. She followed suit. “Lord Megatronus,” he said, “I have brought you a visitor who wishes to open her processor to your wisdom. I present to you Lady Moonracer of the House of Illusia, from Uraya.”

            “A noble, all the way from Uraya? Show me your faceplate, visitor.” On Megatronus’ bidding, Moonracer lowered her hood with shaking servos. “…You are but a newspark. What brings you to me?”

            “I was told not to question the history I have been taught,” she said, her voice wavering, “but my acquaintance with Skywarp makes me question it a lot. I was told that you could teach me the true origins of Cybertron.”

            Megatronus’ gaze flicked over her, assessing. Moonracer felt chilled to her spark and awed by him simultaneously. “The true origins of Cybertron are something the Council have tried to bury for some time,” he began slowly. “I’m glad that you have sought to uncover the truth. Be proud in seeing through their lies, young noble, not afraid.

            “In the beginning, there were four races on our planet: Combatrons, Cybertrons, Insecticons, and Destrons. At first, the four races lived in harmony. The Insecticons’ voracious appetite made them ideal for clearing unruly patches of land. The Combatrons were powerful and strong, and they could build towns and defend their boarders from outside threats. The Cybertrons were great craftsmechs and created goods that benefitted them all. And the Destrons had processors for business that also made them great mediators between the races.

            “But all was not well. For you see, the Combatrons’ greater physical labor also meant that they required more fuel than the Destrons or Cybertrons, and the Combatrons’ tanks could not process the bizarre articles the Insecticons often consumed. However, in the Cybertrons’ processors, ‘fair’ meant ‘equal,’ regardless of need.

            “Eventually, the Combatrons became fed up with doing most of the work and getting less than their needed fuel, and they rose against the Cybertron. Thus began the long cycle of oppression and rebellion, freedom and war.”

            “I’ve never heard of Destrons or Insecticons before,” said Moonracer. “I thought that there were only Combatrons and Cybertrons.”

            “You’ve met a Destron, Moonie,” said Skywarp. “Just think.”

            She thought. She remembered how much Skywarp’s red optics had stood out to her on their first meeting because she had never seen mechs with them before, and now she knew more mechs with them. Skywarp, Megatronus, Blitzwing, Rumble and Frenzy. Why, Swindle had…

            Swindle had purple optics. “Swindle is a Destron?”

            “ _Ding ding_! We have a winner!” cheered Skywarp.

            “I still don’t know any Insecticons,” said Moonracer, “and the fact that I know a Destron doesn’t change the fact that our history has tried to cover their existence up.”

            Skywarp shrugged. “For Destrons, that’s easy. It’s a lot less trouble enforcing a system when you can make it seem like there are only two options, two sides of the credit chip. Plus, there just aren’t as many Destrons around as Combatrons and Cybertrons.”

            “As for Insecticons,” said Megatronus, “I am sure you have found that there are things many mechs will refuse to discuss. They remain unspoken, only slipping out in brief, transient whispers. They are unspeakable to your society.”

            “Leakers. Addicts. Empties. Insecticons. The severely impaired. Forbidden sparklings,” Skywarp provided.

            “A mech born of two castes has none,” Moonracer blurted. “Sorry, I keep hearing that around lately. I’ve never asked anyone about it.”

            “And I very much doubt that anyone would tell you the truth of what it means.” Megatronus’ optics had remained steady through the entire visit, but here they burned brighter. “The Council has declared only certain classes of mechs unworthy of creating new life unchecked. Should any of those mechs be caught having sparklings with each other—or worse, with a mech of a higher caste, it would spell dire consequences for the low-caste mechs involved.”

            “Torture. Hard labor. Empurata,” said Skywarp.

            “As for the unfortunate products of such unions…their fates are unspeakable for a reason.”

            “No one ever hears from them again. Of that you can be sure.”

            Moonracer feels an unpleasant tingle up her spinal strut. The stirring in her tanks makes her think coming wasn’t such a good idea after all.

~----------~

            Hound and Beachcomber got more than a little overcharged in their mourning-slash-celebration, but the former gardener at least had enough sense to lead his friend to a safe place to recharge and recover. They could worry about getting him to work when it was actually time for him to go.

            “Mech. Mech. You’re, like, the best friend a dude could ask for,” Beachcomber mumbled into the arm he was squished against. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

            Being almost as overcharged as the geologist, Hound couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Not unless you know someone who’s willing to hire a fired servant.”

            “You c’d come work at th’lab with me.”

            Hound almost let them both go crashing to the floor. “I can’t. I’m a Se—” The word suddenly eluded him, so he settled on, “not the right caste.”

            Beachcomber shrugged, which sent them both tipping again. “‘S’a time of fluidity, mech. You’re smart. ’M sure you could do it.”

            “Go to berth. You’re overcharged,” laughed Hound. This was just silly. It was silliness caused by his friend’s loss and too much energon. They would forget it when the excess fuel had run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all that I did fit in this chapter, there's also a lot I meant to get to and couldn't. Future chapters, maybe.


	8. Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cybertron is tipping in its little ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be titled "Datapads" originally because, seriously, datapads all over the place. I just don't like having so many chapters that end with S.
> 
>  **Edit 1/30/16:** And finally, this chapter has been edited significantly from it's original form. *fist pumps*

            When Hound onlined his optics to the sight of a grey mech walking around the room, he rolled right off the berth in shock. Parts of his processor booted faster than others, disparities exacerbated by the aftereffects of overcharging. It didn’t immediately occur to him that “walking grey frame” meant “friend who’s in mourning is awake” and not “the building is being invaded by zombies.” Once memories of the past solar-cycle started filtering in, his spark-pulse steadied.

            “Morning, mech,” Beachcomber greeted, oblivious to his minor freak-out. It was clear that, while he wasn’t back to his normal cheery self, he was doing better than he was the solar-cycle before. “Thanks for the company.”

            “No problem,” said Hound. He picked himself off the floor and brushed himself off. “I guess we’re still feeling the fuel enough that you don’t have to stop off for a cube before work.”

            “ _We_ don’t need a cube before work.”

            “I don’t have work; I got fired.”

            “I thought we, like, covered this yesterday, mech. You’re coming to work with me.”

            That almost made him drop to the floor all over again. Hound could tell his jaw was definitely slack. “Beachcomber, buddy, you were overcharged. We both were. That whole ‘job’ thing can’t be more than a joke or a ‘we’re not in our right processors’ dream. I was commissioned a servant; my spark is that of a servant’s; I am a servant. I always will be.”

            “Who says so? The Council? Zeta Prime?” Beachcomber walked over at a leisurely pace and draped an arm around Hound. “Mech, I’ve been lending you datapads for vorns. You could totally pass the required exams, same as any mech who’s spark was sorted as a scientist.”

            Hound hushed him, even though they were the only ones in the room. “Don’t say things like that,” he whispered. “Horrible things happen to mechs that talk that way.”

            “And sometimes good things happen. You hear about the former quantum chemist from Nova Cronum who entered the Elite Guard?”

            “…Is this a joke?”

            “No, no. This actually happened. Things are getting more chill, mech. They’re, like, easing up on the boundaries. Keeping us all down a little less. Word is it has something to do with Vos’ prince expressing interest in science.”

            It was hard to believe, but Hound was beginning to consider it. Most of the motion seemed to be centered around science, and he wondered if he could thank the prince for that. Still, in a position like his, he had to be wary of getting too excited. “But it’s not that large of a leap from the Intellectual caste to the Noble caste,” he pointed out. “What makes you think they’ll accept a Servile mech as an Intellectual?”

            Beachcomber weighed his words before he spoke next. “Do you remember when I told you about the electrum pool?”

            Hound had to rack his processor, but he eventually found the memory file. “That was a _while_ back. What does that have to do with anything?”

            “It has to do with everything, and I think it’s only going to be more important in the coming stellar cycles. Like I said back then, there’s trouble brewing, mech. The Council looks to be easing up just a little on the pressure, if only to keep the container from exploding. They’re still, like, setting up leaps for mechs looking for a change to make, but I know you can do it. So are you with me, mech?”

            He had to be hesitant about accepting. The fact that he was being offered this opportunity to begin with was so surreal. “We still have to pay for the room.” He knew it was a weak resistance, but he had to grab one last moment for Beachcomber to either convince him or come to his senses.

            “We can get that on the way out.”

            Hound still felt something tug at his tank, but his protests were falling away, one by one. “Yeah, okay. Let’s roll for it, mech.”

            They headed out together immediately. A mourning scientist and a fired servant made such an odd pair in the light of the sol, and they drew a lot of attention in all but the most crowded areas of Uraya. Hound felt self-conscious, but even if he’d had a moment to project a hologram over the two of them without being seen, he couldn’t have done it. Not even Beachcomber knew about his ability, and Hound wasn’t sure he was ready to reveal it. But all the stares they were receiving poked at sensitivities working for a noble had instilled in him, the sense that he was trespassing by being seen in the company of a scientist.

            Before he could begin to regret his decision, however, they made it to the shuttle station. Beachcomber paid Hound’s fare. He had to fill out forms stating that, yes, Hound had permission to board and that, no, he wasn’t running away from his masters, and, yes, Beachcomber would accept the consequences if it was discovered he was moving a servant unlawfully. The whole process was awkward, and the mech overseeing the process kept looking between Hound and Beachcomber as though she could conjecture just how a scientist could lose someone close to them and gain a servant—or the authority to transport one—in a short span of time.

            The stares didn’t stop once they boarded the shuttle, though the shuttle was less full than some of the others. The shuttle himself was probably wondering about his passengers. Hound tried to distract himself from the attention by staring out the window as they took off. Cybertron stretched on below them as they flew, speeding above towers and ravines that barely looked like lines on the planet’s surface from the window. It touched something in Hound’s spark, and he watched the world pass by below until the shuttle landed and they all came spilling out onto the streets of Ibex.

            After the busy streets of Uraya and its reaching towers, Ibex felt vacant. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant; Hound could be sociable, but he didn’t mind his alone time, either. There was something about the openness of Ibex that felt liberating and refreshing. Mechs were out and about, doing their work, but it was still quiet enough that a mech could hear their own thoughts without having to sequester themself in some corner.

            The architecture was different, too. Not only was it more spread out, but it felt shorter and bulkier. Uraya and Ibex both tended towards sleek, round shapes, but in Uraya, it was in slopes and spirals. Ibex liked more bulbous structures. Even their tallest buildings were built outwards, almost forming triangles.

            Beachcomber seemed amused by Hound’s admiration of the city. “There’s no place like home, mech. I hope you can call this one yours.”

            He grinned back. “I think I’m well on my way to it.” He was sure there were parts of Uraya he would always miss, _mechs_ in Uraya he would never get to see again, but if he had to start his function over again anyway, there were worse places he could do it in.

            At the labs, Beachcomber ushered him into a room where a few other mechs were waiting. Beachcomber had to get to work, but he started off the recategorization evaluation process for Hound. “I’ll catch up with you later, mech. Good luck.”

~----------~

            “Finesse, dear, would you offer the pleasure of your company on my drive?” asked Mirage. He kept his tone warm and his E.M.-field pulled in tightly. He was certain that Finesse knew him enough to see past the surface. His efforts were put more towards keeping the servants from talking again. It seemed like they needed only the slightest provocation those solar-cycles.

            “Of course, love,” she replied, rising from her seat. As she joined him at the doorway, she brushed her fingers against his servo in a swift, affectionate gesture. To the outside, it would look like a simple exchange between conjuges. To Mirage, it was a confirmation that Finesse understood how he was feeling and an attempt to comfort him.

            He started the conversation while they were walking. “I understand you fired Hound.”

            She nodded, evidently having anticipated this discussion. “With the rumors that have sprung up around him, I felt that the easiest way to stop them was to remove the source.”

            “Rumors or none, he always handled the gardens quite well. Did you consider who would replace him? We had no time to commission a new gardener.”

            “I did consider it, and not to worry, we will have a new mech tending the gardens soon.”

            “And you did not consult me on this?”

            “I felt that sentiment might have prevented you from making the wise decision.” She gave him a serious look before transforming into racecar mode. “He was familiar to you.”

            Mirage tried not to be shaken by the statement. He transformed before he could start blushing. “Moonracer was fond of him. He was good company when she was bored.”

            “And I know she misses him. But she will make other friends. Aubade will learn to ease her boredom, and perhaps that Seeker she met will appear again.”

            That brought another stab of fear. “I have not met the mech, and already, I dislike him.”

            “Because of a falsehood truth,” chided Finesse as they turned a sharp corner. “The Vosian roads are not haunted; they are dark and ill maintained. She would not be visiting him anyway. More than likely, _he_ should be coming to visit _her_. There are landing pads in Uraya.”

            Mirage could not tell her what he knew about the mech or what he suspected. There was a lot he could trust Finesse with, but the information Moonracer had given him about the Seeker being an outlier had to remain hidden. The more mechs knew about it, even if they were the most trustworthy mechs in his life, the more likely the information was to get out into public, and the more likely it was that someone would connect it to an Enforcer’s claim that Moonracer vanished into thin air with a con artist.

            “You miss the point,” he argued instead. “The company she keeps should be those we know to be safe around her. We know next to nothing about this Seeker. Hound, though his presence encouraged talk, at least kept Moonracer on the grounds and occupied.”

            “Except for when he told her about the market and she ran off.”

            “Your argument is a point against both of us. Hound mentioned the market, but had she not gone, she would have never met this Seeker you seem ready to hand her over to.”

            Finesse screeched to a halt. “I am not _handing_ our sparkling over to anyone. I am merely stating that company of her own caliber is better for her in the long term. Or did you want to see her ripped from our household because you were too attached to one lowly servant?”

            Mirage seethed. Part of him couldn’t bear to hear Hound, who had always been kind and faithful, spoken of like that. But though he was upset with Finesse, he couldn’t help but see the logic behind her words, either. Everything she had done was for their and Moonracer’s safety. He didn’t have to like it, but she made her decision for a reason.

            “I’m sorry,” he said at last, even though he wasn’t completely convinced that he was sorry. “Please let us continue our drive. I don’t know what came over me, except that I have been distressed by our youngling’s recent change in demeanor.”

            At first, it had been only an inkling that something was not quite right when Moonracer reappeared after the market incident. Besides the harsh rumors that mechs had invented about her, and besides even his fear about the Seeker outlier, there was a shift in Moonracer’s attitude that could not quite be explained or accounted for. It was even more obvious earlier that sol. She still had a little time left before her first upgrade, but she had looked to have already aged considerably in the night.

            “I agree,” said Finesse. “It’s most troubling. But perhaps another turbofox hunt will solve matters. She always enjoys those, and it might satisfy her urge to leave the grounds.”

            Mirage still felt uncertain, but it was the best option they had.

~----------~

            After waiting around for some time, watching the others get called into another room one by one, Hound was eventually led into a small office. A tall mech of indeterminable alt.-mode was seated at a desk, sizing him up as he entered. “So,” she said. “We have another caste climber. Tell me, why would someone like you need to pursue a new career with us?”

            “I was fired from my position as a gardener,” he confessed, “and no one within my area was hiring. Beachcomber found me and told me there was an opening.”

            Her optics narrowed. “Why were you fired from your previous position?”

            “It was amicable, I swear. I have a recommendation from my former masters.” He unsubspaced the data pad in question and slid it on to the desk. As the mech clicked through it, Hound continued, “It was that everyone else was starting to say things that weren’t true, and I left so that my masters might have some peace.”

            “With nobles?” she asked without looking up from the pad. “That’s not likely. They’ll just get bored with some rumors and invent new ones for their own entertainment. But you look clean. Tell me why you think you should be given an opportunity to prove yourself.”

            “Well…As a gardener, I had to know a lot about the properties of minerals and cybernetic life. I’m sure there is a lot more to learn before I can be a proficient scientist, but I have a basis to jump off from, and I’m ready to learn and learn fast.”

            “Quickly,” she corrected. “You’re ready to learn _quickly_. And you better if you have any hope whatsoever of making it to the testing segment of your trial.”

            She proceeded to ask Hound all manner of questions from what he grew in Uraya to what his fueling habits were. It was extensive, and at times it felt prying. He didn’t really have much to hide outside the exact reason he was fired, but that didn’t mean he wanted to share some of the details she was asking for.

            When the interrogation was through, she let him back out, and he had to wait to find out if he would be selected for further testing. Beachcomber was on a fuel break and came to invite him out. Hound had to leave his comm. number with the attendant in case his decision was reached before he came back, but then they were free to go until then.

~----------~

            The turbofox hunting helped; it breathed a life into both Moonracer and Mirage. But afterwards, Mirage still couldn’t help but feel that Moonracer had crossed an invisible line in her processor, that she was changed for good. She still smiled and graciously accepted compliments, but she lost her bubbly laugh and the brighter shine in her optics. Something more serious took over and wouldn’t let go. It terrified him to see his youngling like that.

            Dash Over hardly seemed to notice. “Fantastic. She’s simply fantastic. I can’t believe we nearly let a talented mech like her go just because of some simpletons’ chatter. You _will_ be taking her to the Reclamation Commemoration in Praxus, of course.”

            “We had been considering it,” said Mirage, “but I worry that Moonracer has not been feeling well as of late. She seems to have less energy than usual, although we have observed no change in her fueling habits.”

            That seemed to surprise Dash Over. He glanced over his pauldron and furrowed his optic ridges. “I wouldn’t think it from the look of her. She’s not so unwell that she would miss her fitting appointment in a mega-cycle? I daresay she and Aubade could us the time together.”

            “No, I very much doubt she would miss it. I don’t see how any Cybertronian in their right processor would deny the joy of having an alt.-mode.”

            “Then I hardly see why she would not be well for the festival.” Dash Over clapped Mirage on his dorsal plating. “If it’s energy she lacks, nothing enlivens like a celebration.”

            He had to think it over. On one servo, if turbofox hunting had only helped a little, he couldn’t see why the festival or anything else would help much more. On the other servo, even if each gesture only helped a little, they would still surely build up until the point where Moonracer returned to her jubilant self. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I am just becoming an overprotective creator.”

            “I doubt that I could blame you.” Dash Over laughed and added, “I might blame you if you let a mech of her skill miss the IntraFormers Sharpshooting Competition, however.”

            Mirage had to laugh along. “No, that would be a travesty, wouldn’t it?”

~----------~

            Hound booted up the datapad for his test with shaking servos. Whatever he had said at the interview, it had made him eligible for the next phase of the process. If he could just do this, he would be one step closer to what he once believed impossible. If he could do this, he wouldn’t have to rely on Beachcomber for fuel or worry about what to do when his resources ran out.

            The questions started out fairly basic. Mostly, they just asked about general types of minerals and where different ones were more likely to be found. Others asked about fauna, their localities, and what they primarily consumed if not energon. About climates and basic geography. Simple chemical equations and properties, basic circuitry. Etc.

            From there, the questions became more complicated and detailed. Hound understood that they wanted him to prove a certain proficiency in each area, but they also wanted to get a better idea of where to sort him in the sciences based on his abilities.

            He answered the questions he knew well and did his best on the questions he wasn’t entirely sure on. A lot of the questions asked him to fill in his own explanations, and he trusted his own ability to communicate ideas with or without proper terminology. By the time he had to turn the datapad in to the front, he felt like he had at least accomplished something.

            “Your results will be returned to you within the next couple solar-cycles,” said the mech collecting the tests. “If you are selected, we request that you begin your work with us immediately. If you are not, we wish you luck finding satisfactory employment elsewhere.”

            Beachcomber met Hound again at the waiting room when he was done for the sol. From there, they headed to the more clustered area of Ibex which constituted the residential zone. Hound tried to offer to find his own accommodations until the results came in, but Beachcomber would hear nothing of it.

            Beachcomber’s apartment was nothing extravagant, but it still shocked Hound with its comfort. To be fair, it wasn’t hard to beat the temporary homes Hound had occupied before, with their barely-padded berths and sparsely-decorated rooms, but Beachcomber’s place felt downright luxurious in comparison. Having multiple rooms alone would have done it, but the brilliant colors on the walls and the thicker padding on the berths in both his room and the guest room were something else. It was like nothing he’d ever known.

            Hound found himself gravitating immediately to the stack of datapads in one corner of the main room. “Do you mind if I…?”

            “Help yourself, mech. As far as I see it, you, like, need to brush up for the job.”

            “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I just applied for the recatergorization.” He sifted through the stack, setting aside the datapads he had already borrowed and finding a selection or two he wanted to read next. “There’s no telling whether I’ll actually get it.”

            “You’ll get it. Can I get you a cube?”

            “No thanks.” The energon at lunch was a higher grade than he was used to, and Hound didn’t want to accidentally overcharge on the stuff. One night of that was good enough for him. But there was one question still plaguing him. “Hey Beach?”

            “Mm?” came the simple reply from the other room as Beachcomber served himself.

            “All this testing and everything…It’s not just because Brushguard was offlined so suddenly, is it? I mean, I know you said that thing about the Council wanting to relieve some pressure, but I hope I’m not getting this chance because of your loss.”

            Beachcomber reentered the room, stopping in the doorway. He took a gulp of his energon before staring at the cube glumly. “It would be a lie if I said it wasn’t a factor. We were going to make the call in anyway, and I was going to recommend you if you weren’t, like, attached to that old house you served. Brushguard’s passing left us short-servoed and needing to fill the order that much quicker.”

            His spark swirled with guilt. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Beachcomber.”

            The concern was waved off. “Of course you didn’t, mech. Just chill out. It’s all groovy.”

            Things were decidedly not groovy, but if Beachcomber didn’t want to talk about it, Hound wasn’t going to push it. He went back to sorting datapads.

~----------~

            Steelstrike’s workshop was more like a massive metal store or a house. The lower level was filled with forging tools, scraps of metal, and armor pieces in various stages of completion. The upper level was where she and Pyrohydriscence lived together. Her actual station where she made the armor was pushed in the back corner of the lower level, distinguishable from the rest of the room only by the glowing forge and “DO NOT CROSS THIS POINT” sign.

            Finesse entered first, followed by Cool Down. Moonracer stopped at the entrance and stared at the Mark of Solus on the doorframe, which labeled the building as a smiths’ establishment. Aubade nearly passed her, but he stopped when he realized she wasn’t stepping forward. “Are you feeling well, Lady Moonracer?”

            “I’m fine,” she said. “I just need a moment, that’s all.” She put her servo over the mark and thought back to her last encounter with Skywarp and his strange lord.

            _“Your designation, Megatronus…I’ve heard it before,” she had said. “I feel that I have read it in historical datapads. But I can’t match your description to any mech I have seen or heard of before.”_

_“I had no formal designation in my previous function,” Megatronus had told her. “I claimed this one from one of the great leaders of Cybertron, one of those original Combatrons before the wars. The first Megatronus was the High Protector, a rank long lost to our history. Alongside the original Prime, the Cybertron called Solus, he ruled over society.”_

_“Solus Prime…The Great Savior, Solus Prime?” Moonracer had searched her processor of what she knew of Solus and Megatronus. The rank Prime had meaning to her, but there was none for High Protector. “They say that Megatronus tried to hold Solus against her will, and that a daring group of Cybertrons rescued her. In payment, she made superior armor for everyone in the resistance against the Combatron regime.”_

_“Is that what they teach?” Megatronus had laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “Solus Prime and High Protector Megatronus were lovers, my innocent youngling. High Protector Megatronus was the strongest, most skilled warrior in all of Cybertron, entrusted with protecting the planet from foreign and domestic threats. Solus Prime was tasked with presiding over religious ceremonies and moral codes, but she forged armor in her time between sermons and came to be known as the greatest of that craft. He fell for her strength, skill, and unmatched beauty. She found beauty in his scars and rougher demeanor._

_“But the Cybertrons could not stand their union. When the Combatron rebellion arose, they took their chance to tear the two from each other, whisking Solus away to their forts. If she made armor for them to fight Megatronus, it was against her will.”_

            Aubade entwined his fingers with hers, snapping Moonracer out of her memories. “Come along inside,” he urged her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I _am_ anxious to be fitted for my armor.”

            “No, I don’t mind. I’m sorry for holding you up.” She forced herself through the entrance. “I was thinking about history. Do you ever wonder about how they teach the past?”

            “I can’t say that I do,” he said. “Frankly, I’ve always been more of an arithmetic mech.”

            Moonracer and Aubade sat patiently while Steelstrike took their measurements. Aubade had grown all he was going to, but because Moonracer was sparked, she had to take some extras to calculate how much her protoform would expand before she was fully programmed.

            Steelstrike frowned at the information she was getting. “Well, Lady Moonracer is looking to be a racecar like her creators, but I must say that her form is coming out a little wider than I would have anticipated.” At the look on Finesse’s faceplate, she rushed to add, “Not that there’s a problem with that. It simply means I can’t make the nose of her alt. as narrow as her Carrier’s.”

            “Is that all then?” asked Finesse, a recognizably sharp edge to her tone.

            “One last thing. For them to have the complementary armor you have requested, I must give a sense of their tastes and how to synthesize them.” In this area, at least, Steelstrike’s work was done for her. If there was one thing Aubade and Moonracer could agree on, it was a simple, unornamented aesthetic. Between their builds both being intended for speed—with Aubade being a future two-wheeler—and Moonracer having grown with a distaste for grandeur, it was easy to decide on something sleek and elegant.

            After everything was settled with the armor, Finesse and Cool Down led their creations off to refuel and have idle chat. Moonracer remembered little of it after the fact, except that she had remarked on her surprise that she was going to be taller than Aubade in a few stellar-cycles.

            On their return trip home for Moonracer’s lesson, she and Finesse ran into Perceptor. His servos were shaking even before he was greeted, and when Finesse called out his name, he nearly dropped the stack of datapads he was carrying. “A-ah! Lord Finesse, Lady Moonracer. It was not my intention to catch you outside.”

            As he turned towards them, Moonracer couldn’t stop herself from gasping. Where his right optic had once been, there instead was a big, dark, metal patch magnetized to his faceplate. Finesse tried to politely silence her, but she could not manage it quickly enough. “What happened to your optic?” Moonracer blurted.

            He shifted the datapads in his arms and touched the patch self-consciously. “There was a minor incident at the lab with the exobiological spectroscope. Not to worry; a replacement optic is being replicated and will be installed very soon.”

            Moonracer was no scientific genius, but even she could tell that was a load of scrap. Someone had gotten to him. She didn’t know who it was or why exactly they wanted him, but she knew that this missing optic was just a warning.

            Perceptor shifted on his pedes and cleared his vocalizer. “Well, I suppose we should hasten up to your tower and commence with today’s lesson. There is little reason to dawdle here, and you seemed so eager to learn last time. I don’t want to wait too long and see your interest wane.” He laughed weakly.

            She didn’t want to let him off so easily, but she didn’t think she would learn much with her Sire there, either. “Yes, Perceptor.” She turned to Finesse and bowed slightly. “Sire, might I part with you and follow Perceptor up?”

            Finesse gave her a stern look. “Mind yourself, Moonracer. Don’t be so rude about his injury. But yes, you may go.”

            Moonracer and Perceptor walked side-by-side. She glanced at him frequently through the journey up to her in-home classroom. He avoided her gaze. Eventually, he released a long, low vent. “There are many questions better left unanswered, Lady Moonracer. It troubles me as a scientist to say so, but it is an unfortunate truth.”

            “That’s not going to stop me from asking what really happened to your optic,” she said.

            “That’s _why_ I lost my optic,” he countered, “questions better left unanswered.”

            “How do you know they’re better that way? The search for the truth is always better than following everything blind.” She sucked in a quick vent. Even she could sense the mistake in her wording. “Sorry. I didn’t…What I meant was…You’re supposed to seek knowledge, right? Aren’t lies and doubts the opposite of knowledge?”

            “Did I not say it troubles me to confess this? Did I accidentally proclaim instead that I was forsaking the attainment of information altogether?” He stopped just short of their destination. “Lady Moonracer, I can assure you that this missing optic is a temporary matter.”

            “And if it isn’t? If they take something else next?”

            Perceptor knelt down and gave her a meaningful look with his one remaining optic. “No one is removing any other component so long as everyone behaves as they should.” He held the gaze for a few moments before shuffling a couple of the datapads into her servos.

            Moonracer started to boot the top one up, but Perceptor caught her servos. “Those are for your own continued study between our lessons. Because I cannot teach you everything in our limited time together, I am entrusting you with some of my datapads. I will collect these when we next meet and leave you with two new ones. For now, we shall continue as scheduled.”

            She wasn’t sure she understood. Perceptor could be just as indirect as the nobility at times. Part of her missed the way Megatronus spoke: clear, assured, and authoritative. Part of her felt Perceptor didn’t speak that way because it was dangerous, though she didn’t know how.

            After her lesson, Moonracer took the datapads up to her room and set them beside her berth. She was going to just leave them there, but she felt riveted to her floor. After a moment of deliberation, she picked the first datapad up. She switched it on and nearly dropped it immediately. Staring back at her from the screen was the title _Insecticon Habitats Before the Golden Age_. Not completely believing her optics, she set it aside and booted up the second one. There, in a half-glitching and barely salvaged file, was a copy of _Prime and Protector_.

            Perceptor didn’t come every day, but every day that he came he had new datapads for her. Moonracer didn’t know where he could have found half of the things he did and at what danger. Some of the files were badly damaged, and it was clear that someone had tried to delete them completely. She learned to read around missing words and screens that would flicker or suddenly shut down on her.

            In the meantime, she was doing research of her own. After the revelation about Destrons, she wanted to see if she could meet any others or find them among public figures. Eventually, she stumbled upon a well-known philosopher called Dead End. She tried reading some of his writing, but she got about as far as, “From the moment our sparks are united with frame, energon begins a protracted curdling process,” before it got too depressing and she had to put it down.

            As the mega-cycles passed, she learned. Her first armor augmentation came and passed, but the progress she was making in her own helm seemed a greater development to her. Technical terms passed through her processor without reliably being recorded, but basic ideas remained. It might have all been skewed to conform to a vision she was forming in her helm, but it wasn’t the vision she had been taught to conform to all her life. To Moonracer, that was all that mattered.

            Meanwhile, Perceptor’s optic socket got worse, to the point where he didn’t even come in one solar-cycle. He sent another mech with a few datapads for Moonracer and to explain the situation to Mirage and Finesse. Amongst her fellow nobles, she seethed silently. With Skywarp and his friends, she raged.

~----------~

            Hound received the results of his evaluation within a few solar-cycles. He was accepted into the Intellectual caste on an extended trial. They placed him in cyberecology. His first couple solar-cycles would be spent as a miniature apprenticeship, working alongside his senior cyberecologists on their studies before being allowed to explore on his own.

            The form Beachcomber had filled out to take him to Ibex was deleted. Hound was a free mech. No one would care where he traveled but his boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perceptor is getting his own multichapter in this universe, by the way. It won't be necessary to read it to understand this (or vice-versa), but I think reading both will make for a better experience.
> 
> And in case you missed it, an "exobiological spectroscope" would essentially be a piece of equipment for studying the light emitted by life on other planets. Perceptor is claiming to either have a very powerful and precise piece of equipment or to be studying highly luminescent aliens.


End file.
